Chronicles of a Hellhound
by CN7
Summary: Made famous for valor surrounding the Reaper War, their faces are known but not their hearts and minds. The following manuscripts autobiographically detail key events surrounding the Reaper War, Cerberus, and LTCMDR Ernest Shepard, from the perspective of Miss Miranda Lawson.
1. Author's Note

_**A/N:**_Hey guys! So this is going to be a lot of fun to write I think, and I really hope you enjoy reading it. I want to really delve into Miranda's mind. She's such a fascinating character, and my personal favorite LI. I feel like this chapter was a bit touch and go to give insight into Miranda's childhood and build her background a bit, the next one will have a bigger focal point. It'll also include more action and excitement.

_This is indeed a Shep/Miranda fanfic. And it will be a novelization of ME2, 3, and so on!_ Not to worry, their romance will blossom and they will begin a to really interact with each other in the log stories very soon, with lots of little mentionings throughout this early part. I plan to have this fic's timeline run from childhood, throughout the entire Mass Effect trilogy, and into the aftermath of the Reaper War. It'll be a big one, and I'll probably have to make it a three-parter.

It'll be fun. Thanks for reading! Let me know what you think, any suggestions or concerns you have, etc. I would love to hear your thoughts! Please review!

-CN7

**Important Notice For Anyone That Has Already Started Reading:**

I've actually held some doubts about opening the first chapter with Liara because I feel like the story heading in a slightly different direction from where it was originally intended, but I also thought that if this was being retold several hundred years from now, Liara would be the one to present it because she knew both Shepard and Miranda so well. However, this is about Miranda. This is following her and you'll all have to wait and see what time period this story is actually being told. So, I have removed Liara as a partial narrator. It just wasn't working out, and I hope you all will enjoy it more this way. Thanks.


	2. Beginnings Pt 1 Childhood

**Beginnings**

**Part I: Childhood**

Birth isn't precisely how I would describe my arrival into this life, nor would I say conception is what led to my making. A more accurate portrayal of events is that I was created in a laboratory by humanity's most prestigious bioengineers, and _harvested_ by a man with an ego the size of Illium's economy. But, to keep things in simple terms I was born on Friday, November 13, 2150, in Hunters Hill, Australia to one mistakenly esteemed businessman, Henry Lawson.

I had no mother. Not really. The closest thing I ever had to a biological female parent was the woman from whom my father _borrowed_ an empty shell of an egg to place his duplicated X-chromosome into. With every carefully selected gene in place, every strand of my perfect DNA mapped accordingly. Even if a mother had been in my life, I doubt she'd have lasted long. My father was a jealous god.**  
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I went through more governesses and tutors than I care to remember, because as soon as I grew attached to one, they were stripped from me like yesterday's news. I can hardly recall the first occurrence, but I was merely an infant then. The second time my caretaker was sent away-on record-was the morning of my fourth birthday.

On Earth, November sits at the end of the changing seasons. In the northern hemisphere that season is autumn, and spring in the southern-where the Australian continent rests. Human culture has often associated these sub-divisions of the year with symbols of death and rebirth respectively-a piece of tradition that's never really sat well with me. Possibly because it holds true for myself. However, they're also the most common times for humans to contract colds. And in spite of my genetic tailoring, my hardly utilized immune system was no exception.

The evening before she left, I was seated on the bench before Father's custom C. Bechstein D 282 concert piano drilling away at the keys, attempting to perfect Mozart's Minuet in G. I had long ago surpassed mere scales. Three hours into the final lesson of my rigorous daily schedule, and I had been exhausted. My eyes were dry, my sinuses overly pressurized, and I desperately wished to adjourn for the night. Unfortunately as a toddler, I had not quite learned that what I wanted and what my father wanted were very different things.

For the first time since I could remember, I halted abruptly during the middle of a song, startling both my piano teacher and my father-who was using me to entertain yet another party member to his board of executives. If I had been older, I'd have taken pleasure in their reaction. I rubbed my eyes and sniffled, turning to meet my father's hard stare. The time had to be going on midnight. "Father, I don't feel well. May I stop?"

The bastard frowned even more deeply as I coughed. Any detour from his carefully regimented day for me was a nuisance, an embarrassment. Especially one caused by weakness. "No. You still have an hour left, Miranda."

Perhaps this was when I learned personal complaints would get me nowhere in life, not when so much was expected out of someone with my abilities.

"Please, Father. I've been good all day. I'll practice longer tomorrow." I whined and a sudden urge to cry-a common action for a spent, human three year old-overwhelmed me. My reserves were drained. I had always been diligent in my tasks. It was expected, and I pushed myself to succeed. Why couldn't Father understand how exhausted I was just this once?

It's a tiring task, trying to understand the thought process of Narcissus.

"Keep playing." Purple began to cloud his stormy expression.

Beside me, my tutor wrung his hands nervously under my father's gaze. He rarely spoke to me apart from slapping my wrist away at the touch of an incorrect key, or to introduce me to a new song. My abilities had nearly eclipsed his at that point. I could read music just as well and teach myself new ballads most composers found difficult. The only dilemma I possessed was difficulty in reaching the pedals with my short legs. Yet, Father kept him on because I was not completely free of faults, I had not composed a masterpiece that would be engraved amongst the greats. My teacher's voice was harsh. "It's only an hour, Miranda."

"No." Such a protest had never reached Henry Lawson's ears before. And it was a dangerous one at that.

Helplessly, I glanced around to catch sight of Oola, the only person that I knew would always come to my rescue. My ever-vigilant caretaker swooped in like a bird of prey. She had often stood at the far end of the room, waiting to attend to me, to protect me. Even if it was unnecessary, but to her my well-being was a priority. And not simply because I was the reason she had a paycheck. Her soft, gentle, brown hands roamed straight to my forehead before quickly wiping away my tears and pulling me up into her arms. "Mr. Lawson, the child has a fever."

I can't recall the specific words exchanged between the two-with my face buried safely in Oola's shoulder-but I believe it was a brief exchange, merely a cold dismissal by Father perhaps. A permanent one.

Like every other night that I could remember up to that point, Oola bathed me, gave me a teaspoon of medicine, and tucked me into bed. Her fingers travelled through my long hair, and her warm eyes crinkled as she smiled at me-one of the last I'd ever see of it's kind. "Are you excited about tomorrow, Miri?"

"Why?" What did I have to be excited for? It would just be another day with a slight variation in schedule. There would be the same studies, same lectures, same loneliness. Only spent in a dress.

"It's your birthday tomorrow." She tried to insist, but I could see in her eyes that she was just hoping for a happiness I would never achieve under Henry Lawson's domain. "You'll have a party."

"No, I won't. It'll be Father's friends." That's all there ever had been at my prior birthday celebrations. Guests had never been- and never would be- children. I wasn't allowed friends. Father believed they would taint his most pristine piece of craftsmanship. Instead, Henry Lawson wined and dined a few dozen of the galaxy's most notorious and infamous bureaucrats in his estate's gardens to display his prize piece like a trophy, to extend business deals, to boast of his wealth, to remind his competitors of the perfect potential of their future business rival. But mostly to be admired- worshipped -as I stood silently by his side dressed up like a China doll in my newest gown- looked at but never played with. He would prop me up in his lap with a false smile for his companions, and disgustingly pretend for one day a year that he was proud of who and what I was. My birth was not the focal point of any celebration, it was the annual marking of my father's success of a guaranteed dynasty.

I despised it.

I was quiet for the briefest of moments. "Does Father love me?"

Oola was far too hesitant with her answer. War raged within her brown eyes. Could anyone be cruel enough to tell a child the miserable truth? She stroked my hair. "Now why would you ask something like that?"

I shrugged my small shoulders, sinking further into the downy pillow. "He's never told me he does."

"Sure, he does." She lied to me for the first time. "Some people just don't know how to say it."

"It's simple," I debated quietly, gazing up at her with the rose-colored lens only a child could see the world in. "Listen. 'I love you'."**  
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I believe this was when I stopped believing in the phrase.

"Your father expresses it differently." Oola shook her head as she tried to conjure up any history of my father's affection. A nonexistent history, impossible to find. He never gazed at me with anything more than rapacity, never kissed away scraped knees, never offered me sanctuary from night terrors, never treated me like a daughter. Not even a person. "He gives you nice things."

Sure. He shipped in a piano the minute I mastered the scales, but for his own personal gain to entertain _his_ friends. "Never what I need. Besides, he always takes them away somehow."

My governess' countenance became irrevocably despondent and she pushed her lips to my forehead. "Well, I love you, Miri."

"I love you, too." Suddenly, hope stirred in my heart. Perhaps I could have someone there for me after all. "Will you come tomorrow?"

Oola kissed my forehead and made a comment about how my fever seemed to be going down already. She tried to smile when she refused to tell me that my father would never allow it. A servant at his gala? Preposterous. "Tell you what, we'll throw you a party of our own tomorrow night after your father's. We'll have a tea party in the kitchen. With scones and cakes, and I'll bring down Thomas to join us."

"Really? Will you, Oola? Thomas would like that very much." Or maybe it was just me.

Allow me to elaborate.

Friends were forbidden. So was anything else I could form a sentimental attachment to. That included but was not limited to pets, dolls, memorabilia, stuffed animals, etcetera. Thomas was Oola's and my secret. He was gifted to me by her the day she discovered my loneliness. Next to my nanny, the stuffed bear was my best friend-as trivial as that is for me to admit. Often, I'd pretend he had a soul, a voice, that he knew and cared about everything I was. Unfortunately, secrets were hard to keep in the estate, especially when Oola was no longer there to protect me from the most severe repercussions. The walls had ears. And I was eventually gifted with an ultimatum by the esteemed Mr. Lawson. Thomas could be kept, so long as he was reduced to ash. I collected every single ember. Such a foolish thing for me to do.

Father had an interesting way of giving me anything I ever wanted.**  
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But, I digress.

Of course there would never be a tea party for the three of us. But up until that point in time, I was the most enthusiastic I had ever been for my birthday. Besides, Oola never broke a promise. Fate is a funny thing though, when it disagrees with you. So I learned to make my own vows a bit more carefully.

She interweaved our deal with a bedtime story favorite of mine, and a soft lullaby. Today, recollection of every single word to the song is like breathing, and it always will be regardless of my nearly eidetic memory. I fell asleep to the melody of her voice, and caress of her fingers.

I'm not sure what I'd have done differently if I'd known that Father would send her away in the morning. Pleaded? Cried? An unwise decision as it was, that's what I wound up doing.

I stumbled out of bed before the break of dawn to the sounds of infuriated protests on the ground floor. My internal clock was hardwired to wake me prior to dawn anyways. If it wasn't followed there were always severe consequences. But this morning I hadn't dressed and prepped myself. Instead, I careened down the marble grand staircase in pajamas with sleep-crusted eyes and unruly hair, wildly in search of the argument's source.

A door slammed haughtily just as I rounded the corner. A basket of Pink Ladies was overturned. Apples littered the ground. My maker glowered in the entryway with his hands folded behind his back. He almost completely disregarded me as I plastered my face to the window, only to witness two of the estate's armored guards escort Oola into an awaiting skycar. She was already gone, bag in hand, no farewells. I begged to know why, where she was going. My nanny had never left me before, but now she'd be lost to me forever.

Sniffing coldly, Henry Lawson's ego resonated through the pillared, marble room. Calmly rotating a Pink Lady in the palm of one hand, he took a bite and coolly told me, "You're not meant to love a governess, Miranda. They're tools of assistance, nothing more. I created you to be greater. Go get ready for your lessons."

Ridding me of a personal caretaker that I was deeply attached to was by no means the only deterrent my father imposed on me during my childhood. In fact I was gifted several constructive, symbolic lectures on traits like faith and how such trust was fruitless, discipline and the methods that could be utilized to achieve total control, how to way the odds in one's favor, value and how it should be placed accordingly based on an individual's usefulness, and discrepancy and how omission wasn't inevitably untruthful. Comparatively speaking, her discharge was child's play.

With all roadblocks either absent or coerced out of the way, I was completely his to mold. His first task was to break me, and he showed me-with gusto-just how he planned to do so the day he brought me to observe a right of passage for his youngest and most prized thoroughbred. On Earth, equestrian activities are mostly reserved for the wealthy and the elite, and horses are a rarity. My father owned an entire herd of racers, but Faster Than Light was something of a treasure amongst the flock.

Stemming from a lineage of the swiftest, strongest, and most intelligent champions of the past hundred years, he was bred for absolute perfection. Seventeen hands tall, willful, inquisitive, and powerful, Faster Than Light was shaping up to be just as sinewy and capable as his genealogy had predicted. But he was ornery, wild, and petulant enough to refuse be saddled. There had been so much fire in his eyes, and as a child, I knew his heart was meant to roam free of any constraints.

When the lasso finally encircled his broad neck, Faster Than Light resisted. He bucked and rolled, kicked and tugged, cried out in protest for a life under his own control. Three stable hands were required to pull him back onto all four hooves, five to steady him. Their tiresome duel lasted well over a half an hour until the steed ruefully took a knee. Even from my distance to the ring the stallion's eyes locked with mine, and I watched his resolve shatter like a crystal vase dropped from a fifth story window. Faster Than Light had been so lively and youthful in the fields the day before, yet at that moment he lay defeated amongst the dust. Any anger in his brown eyes had diminished to nothing. No spark left in his brown depths, not even a hint of anger. Just a hollow disappointment.

I took everything in as analytically as possible under my father's expectant stare. By age seven I had reigned in a grasp of stoicism to keep my thoughts my own. But had I been able to keep the shock from spreading into my countenance? I don't believe so, however my sudden and alarming fear was kept off my face. I didn't want Father to see that I was frightened of this treatment, that I knew he would do the same to me if it killed him-or me.

Faster Than Light served the purpose expected of him and excelled, but if he was ever content with his racing career, I couldn't tell. He became a successful drone of obligation, and I'd wondered what made him stop fighting. His choice of surrender initially infuriated me. How could he have given up so easily? Then I discovered the fates of the others less willing to comply. Sold or put down without hesitation. Suddenly I didn't begrudge him so much.

I'd like to have believed I was stronger-willed than a cherished racehorse. Yet, those times I had myself bleeding out of my ears and nose due to biotic exertion- simply to appease Father would stand as evidence against that. Perhaps though, it was one of those times trying to hone my capabilities and match them to the recently explored asari, that ultimately resulted in my abandonment of vying for my father's nonexistent affection. Or maybe it was all those times he exploited my use as an asset to increase his power and control.

Regardless of how much my hatred for the man grew, I was forced to reside under his rule, subject to his regime. I was his greatest investment, and he was not about to allow his billions of credits go to waste. My every limit was pushed to succeed and meet impossible odds. I earned my first degree at the age of thirteen, was instructed in biotics by asari commandos, learned to play twelve different instruments, speak eight languages fluently, perfected martial arts from around the world, drilled in the practices of business, politics, and sciences. There was never praise for my accomplishments. I didn't deserve it anyways. Every achievement was due entirely to a multitude of flawless and supremely manufactured genes. My gifts were not my own, and my father made that very clear. The only thing I could own were my mistakes. Errors were the only things that showed the black holes in my father's efforts. I both despised and treasured my blunders, but they did not give me purpose.

I suppose what actually gave me the meaning I searched for was the lapse of judgement in others. When I was allowed to interact with people, I was given the chance to admire the tenacity of human nature. I saw drive, mortality, ambition, and potential- all of it natural. I saw where they had shortcomings, and where I could put my talents to use. To better humanity.

That was how I came to befriend Niket- the one person in my childhood that demanded nothing of me, but gave everything in return.

In actuality, Niket was the one that demonstrated any ounce of virtue. For months I had dismissed him, just as I had with all other staff in my father's estate. They treated me with no additional kindness than what they were paid for, so I wasn't interested in taking the initiative. But the seventeen-year-old maintenance boy was. Each time he saw me he would go out of his way to greet me, ask me how my day was going, try to tell me about his own, about his immigrant family, lighten me up with a joke or compliment. It wasn't until the day my first biotic implant-what would become known as an L2 prototype- over two years before its intended release date- was installed, that I realized he wasn't an average sycophant desiring me for abilities or looks.

"Miranda, are you okay? You look a little pale." Niket tended to pester me just after my mid-afternoon lessons. That day he had been assigned to resetting the security wiring outside of the kitchen, and I happened to be stumbling out of the recovery room to retrieve saltines and the first glass of water I'd had in over twenty-four hours. Father was suspicious regular hospitals would tamper with his finely tuned genetic dynasty, so my medical procedures were performed in the bowels of his estate's ambiguous labyrinth.

"I'm fine." I wanted to bite back a seething retort regarding his astute observation, yet all I could manage was to shoot him a withering glare. He should have known I didn't desire small talk. The day before he had managed to extract knowledge of my upcoming surgery. The pain the L1s had described from having chips placed at the base of their brain was nothing compared to the torment of an L2 lodged into the back of my head. My ears rang, my eyes burned past any promise of clear vision, my head thrummed at a mere pulse, nausea came over me in tidal waves. Then again L1s could barely snap a toothpick. This prototype was meant to spike to levels on par with asari commandos. And if that fine control and power were possible, I could circumvent the immediate repercussions of post-op.

Or so I thought.

I hadn't wandered another meter past his post when the smell of that evening's meal preparation- for Henry Lawson and his perpetually present guests- struck me, and I became possessed with the urge to keel over in dry heaves. I wasn't about to show weakness in front of this servant boy though. I ignored the impulse and marched straighter, making my way through the gigantic, canteen-style kitchen. Niket tailed my every step, obviously doubting the truth in my statement. By the skittish expression plastered to his face, I was fully aware of his need to keep me under surveillance.

I practically snarled when he pulled up a chair at the nook well out of the way of any staff, and instructed me to sit.

What was his angle? To leech off a lonely, overly privileged fourteen-year-old? Why was he concerned if the boss' heir tipped over unconscious? To stake claim as my rescuer if my father asked why his science project's body rejected the implant? I was the pompous aristocrat that had discovered precisely how to read every ulterior motive a person indubitably maintained, but never how to bond with those individuals.

"Like hell," I growled. He sidestepped me, and blocked my every way with such a condescending smirk. I was consumed with the mad desire to rip it off his face with my bare hands. My rage was nearly as blinding as my migraine. This was not a time to play games. "Move, Niket, or I'll have you evicted."

That was untrue. Despite my reasonable misgivings and fury, I didn't have the heart to fire him. Not after every hour of storytelling he'd forced me to endure. Countless tales of his four younger siblings, and how he wanted to buy the youngest dance lessons because all she spoke of was becoming a ballerina. About his parents each working three jobs to provide for their large family, and how he wanted to take the pressure off of them by finding pay in Mr. Henry Lawson's estate. He was always so frustratingly sincere-unlike Father's bureaucratic companions.**  
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He actually had the gall to laugh. Probably because my voice was hoarser than any smokers'. As disarming as his tone was, my irritation only inflated. "Relax, Miri. I only want to help."

Startled, my gaze snapped up. Too quickly, hence the distorted spinning of furniture and appliances. I attempted not to lean heavily against the counter. No one had called me that before. No one since Oola. And he had rattled off a precious nickname with surprising ease. The hostile expulsion I had prepared was suddenly all but forgotten. "Why?"

Niket graced me with an undeserved smile and shrugged kindly. "Because you look awful."

In all my years, no one had ever tried to win me over by discrediting my attractiveness. But Niket hadn't deliberately attempted to squander my ego out of malice. He had pointed out something about me that was completely and one-hundred percent human. In spite of my tailoring, my body was suffering PONV and ultimately disagreeing with the new, electrical pulses discharged into my neural synapses by Father's new toy, and he was legitimately concerned for my personal well-being. Mine. Not Henry Lawson's hereditary protege, or a longterm test subject too valuable to be thrown away. The notion almost made me grin. Almost. "Charming."

"Well, you know what I mean." His voice lowered to avoid prying ears. Needless. There were always eavesdroppers in my father's house, but information was privy. "You're probably not even supposed to be out of post-op."

My glare intensified. I could feel my knees longing to buckle under a dizzy spell. Technically, there was a bit of truth in his words. I may have told the nurse to bugger off. Miranda Lawson could handle anything. "I could throw you out the window with a single thought if I so wished."

"Right," He drawled and motioned to the chair once again, observing any remaining color drain from my face. "I'm sure that's immediately after your desire to jog all the way to the opera house and back at this very moment."**  
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If I had demonstrated then and there just how capable a biotic I was, I'd have probably ended up in a vegetative state and replaced much sooner than planned. Admitting defeat was detestable. I huffed, folded my arms under my chest, and flopped unceremoniously into the seat. My cranium sang in protest. "Impossible."

"Not impossible. Just helpful." Niket threw me a congenial look, and scampered off to pilfer water and bland palatable snacks for two. My suspicious gaze never left him. He maneuvered the kitchen as though he knew it well, finding glasses and the regularly accessible pantry with ease. I had long ago discredited the possibility that he'd attempt anything funny. He was too smart for that. Number one in his class- a quality I begrudgingly admired. The liquid ambrosia was set before me ever so gently, without noise. When he plopped down beside me- much to my bristling animosity- he curiously gestured to the back of his head. "So, what's it supposed to do exactly?"

The vile flavor in my esophagus protested my urge to swallow anything. Bursting open a set of crackers, I laid one on my tongue to absorb the salt and convince my stomach otherwise. As it dissolved, I eyed my associate more closely, and rebuffed him. "Aren't you supposed to be working?"

"I'm taking a break," Niket shrugged, stuffing his face full of his own crisps.

"In the favor of my company?" I skeptically hissed.

His brown eyes were warm and inviting. "I enjoy your company."

The venom in my voice was laired with a suppressed groan. "You're a bloody liar."**  
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Expression wounded, he shook his head from side to side. "Not true, Miri. You're very interesting. Intelligent. Gifted. Funny."

Manners abandoned, I snorted into my water glass at his subpar assessment. I forced myself not to down it all at once. The results would have been disastrous. "You're describing the wrong person."

Niket chuckled. "Well, not in the conventional way. You're not giggly and silly, or ditzy like most girls."

"Appalling behavior," I muttered, trying to drown out what wood paneled floors could not from the kitchen staff at the far end of the room. Their concoctions no longer bothered me as much as the clanging of their pots and utensils.

"Exactly." He pointed giddily. "You don't mean to be entertaining, but sometimes you are. In spite of your lacking sense of humor. Always so biting and dry, and you actually 'know' what you're talking about. Your ability to maintain a conversation of substance. You're a...unique friend."

Never in my life had anyone claimed me as their friend. What right did Niket have to bestow such a title upon me? I hardened my resolve. "I don't keep friends."

"Which is exactly why you need one," The maintenance boy countered.

"And you're supposed to be that one, special person?" I was positive we were fluent in the same native tongue. Even if we weren't, possession of such a faulty translator incapable of detecting the acidic flavor of my rhetorical question was unlikely.

Wryness faded entirely, he firmly wished to establish bona fides. "Sure. If no one else is in line, I'll be up front."

"Who put you up to it?" If anyone was involved, it was probably my father's game. Testing me and my interaction with others around my own age.

"No one." His answer was flat, lacking deflation, no signs of putting up a subconscious physical barrier. I was having a hard time believing such honest posture.

"Really?"

"Yes."

"Well, I don't want pity- if that's what this is."

"It isn't."

"Then pray tell: what is it, Niket?"

I rubbed my temples in a desperate attempt to relieve compression, and was surprised when he reached over in an act of benevolence and squeezed the pressure points on either side of my nose. Even more surprising was that I allowed it. "I personally like you. Maybe you don't want a friend, or maybe you don't know how to be one." My glare was ignored. "You don't have to be one for me, but it'd be nice for you to have one, right?"**  
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Silence was what met him. Not uncomfortable. Simply contemplative. When he released me, I grabbed for my water once again. What possessed my line of reasoning was foreign. "It's supposed to give me an acute sense of control."

Actually, to be more specific it was a prototype. A trail for an L2 implant such as this had to be life-threatening. I was incredibly lucky the chip did not overstimulate my brain activity and electrocute me seeing as research would later prove L2s could cause their wearer severe health issues.

He looked up and smiled, keenly interested as I answered his seemingly forgotten question. "How so?"

"Most human biotics aren't naturally able to pick up a sack of flour. I'm a... rare case. I've got EZNs like you wouldn't believe, and I was capable of pulling a small person twenty meters away. Of course, that was unusual even for me. My aura fired at random."

"And now?"

"Now, I've got a longer wait between nosebleeds."

Niket gave me the rest of the childhood that could still be squeezed out of me. After my lackadaisical agreement to his proposition, my competence to remain aloof in his presence was slightly deficient. Not to say that I was incapable of leveling him with a well placed glare or two, or all together pretending I was unfamiliar with him, but every once in awhile he managed to perform a great feat and extract a smile in passing. Of course, when we were alone I found his potential to do so even greater. He was gentle, even tempered, never lashed out at me for my 'limited' emotional capacity, never expected more from me, allowed me to purge my inner frustrations, introduced me to glimpses of normalcy. Niket became an escape.

I was surprised to learn years later my father had discovered our arcane amiability, even more so that I wasn't forced to beg to keep Niket as a friend while under his reign. During my early year, my father reigned over me with terror. And in my adolescence, I accrued a substantial reason to live in fear.

I discovered the horrifyingly grotesque fates of siblings I had never known. Those children- my sisters- Henry Lawson considered failures. If I was deemed deficient by my father, I would have succumbed to the same demise. The cycle would continue, and I would not allow that to happen.

Albeit, I never would have groveled to keep Niket. I had learned not to allow myself to become too attached to people regarding such circumstances. But, that time Father allowed me to become more acquainted with the boy that worked in his house than I had ever intended to. Undoubtably for a personal gain as a hook, or angle. Niket was something new to leverage against me, and Henry Lawson made sure of it.

But at the time that our friendship was blossoming, I never could find a way for him to be used against. I never saw it coming. Especially not after my escape.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: **Thanks for reading this chapter! Your support of my first chapter chapter was amazing! I hope you liked enjoyed this one. I know this chapter sort of felt like brief, embedded journalism, but the grand majority of this story will not be structured like this. It will be much more, condensed, interactive and interpersonal- like the ending scene with Niket. Especially the next chapter. *cough* Cerberus recruitment. I imagine that childhood is a remarkably touchy subject for Miranda, so she'd be likely to focus on a few defining moments that mostly hint at the horrible way her father treated her. There will be future chapters that will have something kindred to flashbacks of interactions with her father, her upbringing, and so on. Henry Lawson will definitely pop up in the future.

Again, thanks for reading. Please leave me your thoughts. Your opinions really inspire me, and any feedback is great. I love your support.

_02/24/2014- _I've made some serious provisions to the next four chapters- chapters 1-5- regarding Laira's role, and adjustments to grammar. Including this one.

_7/9/2014_- Grammatical editing


	3. Beginnings Pt 2 Revolution

**Pt. 2 Revolution**

No matter how I've learned to cope with them as necessary evils, I have never developed any great love for surprises.

Ever since my early childhood, I have strongly preferred to analyze any and every possible outcome to a sequence of events. I want to know where I'm going, how many accessible exits there are, who I'm dealing with, how I'm getting there, how I could leave, why I'll be in the position in the first place, and what's going to happen depending on actions A, B, or C. Forethought tends to give me the more desirable advantage.

Surprises, on the other hand, have constituted themselves to be something of a hazard. Usually in my life they've begun with phrases like; 'guess who decided to defect', 'guess which terrorist is actually carrying the antimatter', 'guess what type of monster lives on this planet', 'guess who paid billions of credits to create you', 'guess who's going to remind you every waking moment', 'guess who forgot to double check security monitors', or my personal favorite, 'guess who's trying to kill you today.'**  
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Perhaps those weren't all surprise. Nonetheless it's those types of awe inspiring phrases that can really melt a girl's heart, or inspire thoughts of running for your life.

So imagine the supreme rush of affection I felt for my maker the day I learned he planned to dispose of his latest failure. The surprise was that he had more than one. I was number seven.

It was early June when I stumbled upon the the file never meant for my eyes.

**_{From the Desk of Dr. T Chang By Executive Order of Henry Lawson}_**

_Project Pilot: Start Date- 04/27/2141, Completed Embryo- 05/14/2141, Date of Termination- 11/30/2141_

_Project Eve: Start Date- 11/30/2141, Completed Embryo- 12/24/2141, Birthdate- 09/16/2142, Date of Termination- 09/28/2142_

_Project Eloise: Start Date- 09/29/2142, Completed Embryo- 10/30/2142, Birthdate- 07/23/2143, Date of Termination- 09/04/2143_

_Project Charlotte: Start Date- 09/04/2143, Completed Embryo- 10/02/2143, Birthdate- 06/25/2144, Date of Termination- 07/23/2146_

_Project Georgia: Start Date- 5/20/2144, Completed Embryo- 6/24/2144, Birthdate- 03/17/2145, Date of Termination- 11/30/2149_

_Project Sophie: Start Date- 11/01/2148, Completed Embryo- 11/20/2148, Birthdate- 08/30/2149, Date of Termination- 12/25/2150_

_Project Miranda: Start Date- 12/24/2149, Completed Embryo- 2/21/2150, Birthdate- 11/13/2150, Pending Authorized Termination- 12/01/2166 if Approved_

_'Pending Authorized Termination.'_

For what felt like hours I was immobile. I remember my entire body going numb with immediate fear in my father's office. I had always despised the man. The extremities, impossible odds, and groundwork that he laid down for me made me resentful to begin with. But staring at the names of six lives- six elder sisters- he had created and wasted so frivolously, made the vile taste of revulsion creep up my throat.

Children. The one that lived longest, Georgia, had been four years of age when she had been murdered. And what of Sophie? Our times had coincided. Had she known me? Did any of them recognize the existence of their siblings? Georgia and Charlotte must have known each other, and Henry Lawson must have decided that gifting his prodigy a companion was degrading to her progress as a perfect heir. Conceivably discarding one had been a test of emotional or psychological endurance. Clearly, neither passed.

_'Pending Authorized Termination.'_

Nor had I.

I resolved myself to run.

Yet it was the eighth entry I found severely disconcerting.

_Project Oriana: Start Date- 06/29/2165, Completed Embryo- 10/20/2165, Estimated Birthdate- 07/04/2166_

Oriana.

My genetic twin.

My replacement.

My responsibility. **  
><strong>

My little sister was growing in the bowels of Henry Lawson's private labs, and when she was deemed ready, she would be poised as yet another archetype of a perfect human being. She would be forced to endure every disturbing detail of my own upbringing combined with amendments where my father had failed with me- if she even lived as long as I had.

I would not allow that to happen.

I had options to consider:

First of all, bringing in the authorities was a very, very bad idea. My father had enough money to own Australia. Specifically in 2166, Australia's National Wealth accrued to a total of 800 trillion credits. Henry Lawson's net worth was .001% of that wealth. Child Services and the Board of Genetic Research Engineering would absolutely turn the other cheek for a few extra credits.

Not that I trusted them to begin with.

No, it wouldn't simply be a matter of the two of us leaving. We would be pursued and Oriana deserved a normal life. One filled with affection, parents that held her in the middle of the night to dispel the nightmares, where sometimes the biggest dilemma in her day would be deciding where to go to dinner. She could choose to make friends, what university to attend, to make her talents her own. Oriana would be happy. She would never be experimented on. She would grow up to define her own meaning in life. I had to ensure the safety of my father's investments and simultaneously destroy any opportunity he had of creating another heir.

So, I ran up hypotheses on where to find that type of protection. A place we could remain inconspicuous and unobtainable to Henry Lawson.

I knew of only one.

For nearly five months, I led Henry Lawson on to believe I was oblivious to his plans. After all, Father needed as much time to plot my execution as I did to earn the attention and trust of Cerberus.

_**November 12, 2166 / Hunter's Hill, Greater Sydney Metropolitan Area, NSW, Australia, Earth, Sol, Local Cluster / 19 years, 6 months, 11 days Pre Reaper invasion of Earth**_

I went to see Niket the day I ran.

"Sixteen tomorrow. Legally old enough to vote. Thoughts on registering?" He smiled warmly, baiting me for a debate as I shooed away a clown with a menacing leer.

_Such cheap entertainment._

My lips pursed thoughtfully on the matter at hand. A perfect distraction to savor what could be my final moments with my best friend. "Registering doesn't seem like an option. Far too traceable."

Amusement settled into his eyes, just as I had expected. Niket was always a fan of human involvement in politics, and had developed a deeply rooted adoration for the Systems Alliance- an opinion I didn't necessarily share. I could respect the value of their ambitions to become a vital adversary in galactic affairs, but they were too bogged down by bureaucracy to accomplish anything truly remarkable for humanity. Not to mention their firewalls were designed for imbeciles and their leadership was craven.

He pulled his hands out of his pockets and waved them at his sides good-naturedly before unscrewing a cap from a water bottle. "Indulge me, Miri. If you thought it best, what would you pick?"

He would not appreciate my answer.

Without missing a beat, I informed him, "Terra Firma."

A choking sound escaped his throat when his lungs rejected the liquid meant for his esophagus.

_Figures._

After bestowing him a discreet thump on the back, he gawked aloud, "You can't be serious!"

I didn't usually joke. Maybe I did let my guard down around Niket enough to actually poke fun with him, but I was hardly ever dishonest with him. He was, after all, the only person in existence that could illicit a genuine smile or laugh from me. Blatantly lying to him was usually needless. Of course, in the following moments my upcoming news would require me to be relatively omissive. "Why not?"

Niket stuttered, "They- they're terrible! Look, I care for turians about as much the next guy, but you can't possibly support extruding them and every other race from our affairs. That'll jam us into the batarians' position. We need their experience in this new galactic community. Trade and commerce have skyrocketed since they've become involved. They've been around centuries longer than we have, and we might learn something valuable. Besides, a hefty concentration of Terra Firma is centered around the ideals of dominating and burning them to ground zero. It's an outdated political backwash party retaliating over the First Contact War."

"To muse about my possibly being a xenophobe is borderline imbecilic, Niket." Good-naturedly, I rapped his cheek with my forefingers.

I prefer for such information to be as lucid as possible. I held no animosity towards aliens. In fact, I could even admire the resourcefulness the asari had instilled upon themselves when they first discovered the relay network, and the vast influence they still maintained over the Citadel races. My desires were merely for humanity to obtain the same status.

"And I mean that in the absolute best possible way."

"Which is precisely the reason your choice baffles me," he conceded wryly. "You've always struck me more as a Clay Federation type."

"Too small and unfunded to have any clout in parliament."

"So, you would choose disillusioned radicals instead?"

"Xenophobia is ludicrous. Learning their languages - even with translators and all their faulty rewording- and culture are vital for business and politics alike. Aliens are a part of this galaxy whether or not anyone likes it, dubbing that prehistoric philosophy impractical." I scoffed. "What I support is Terra Firma's ideals for maintaining humanity's individuality. Preservation of culture. Making our own mark. We need to show the other races our potential. How powerful we are. We aren't to be trifled with, Niket. The batarians alone have already harassed us enough, don't you think? And the Alliance does nothing except shuffle their feet. The newest concubine in the Council's harem. Too shy to speak up or defend themselves."**  
><strong>

"..."

"..."

"..."

"What?"

Under his soft, scrutinous stare I took note of just how hot my face had become. I hadn't raised my voice, no real emotion had slipped into my monologue apart from the acerbic twist of my features- and the sapphire aura wringing my wrists. It took me sometime to realize he was refraining himself from asking if I was really talking about humanity and our politics.

He shook his head and rapidly changed the subject. "How was your trip?"

Crumpling my nose, I flipped a switch, and donned mocking, haughty expression specifically for the maintenance boy escorting me down the boardwalk I wasn't supposed to be on. November's spring breeze blew in from the Tasman Sea and tussled my long hair, making me eternally grateful for the thermal wrap encircling my shoulders. "Esoteric."

"So elite on Beckenstein." Niket beamed broadly as he passed me fairy floss and a fresh bag of kettle corn he'd purchased from one of multiple vendors. There were fewer people roaming across the planks on this blustery early evening than there were most days, but the crowd was enough to remain inconspicuous. Exactly what was necessary to avoid my father's prying eyes and tyrannical nature.

"Entrepreneurs follow money like breadcrumbs. Sponsors make them flock." Making haste on the treat I led him towards the railing overlooking the rest of the bay. We leaned heavily against the barrier to watch the deceivingly small tide lap at the rocky break, refraining the more asthenic marine life in the area from escaping to far more dangerous open waters. Or, maybe it was to keep them trapped in shallow waters for aquatic birds of prey. Nature certainly had its way.

Mockery dripped through the notes of his tone as he shoved his hand into our plastic sack and extracted a large clump of nature's warm caramelized candy. "Damn them trying to make a living."

An unremarkable noise of dissatisfaction escaped my throat, and I narrowly avoided biting down on a kernel. A rare slip of my impeccable manners. "You know what I mean. They're just investing and selling out to my father because his cartel is intergalactically poignant." Acerbic acid laced my words. "That and as he parades me around as a pretty, little siren; reciting budget analyses and extracting business secrets from any competitor with my _silver tongue_, he has the opportunity to extort and proposition. Join, or die!"

Niket grunted in disgust. He maintained his own misgivings about my father's treatment of me. He'd been a personal witness as I was showcased, berated and humiliated for the most minor of blunders, treated more like a possession than a person. Other circumstances- drilled in intensive biotic combat for twelve hours straight as punishment for speaking out of term, forced to calculate and recite the precise amount of money down to the hundred-thousandth decimal the very fiber of my being cost to create and would continue to tax him each time I made the smallest of errors, and so on- were burdens I tried to make sure Niket did not undertake.

Instead I usually erred on the side of carefully monitored considerations of patricide to appease myself.

"The first wave of colonists based their economy on novelty tourist items for the Citadel. Not the brightest choice. This group is smarter. They've made a name for themselves developing luxury goods and commercial infrastructure. Being so close to the Citadel, they've opened up quite the market. I admire that tenacity. With a little push, the economy could boom. To make that happens though, they needed help. My father took interest in a weapons dealer- Donovan Hock, a former affiliate of Kassa Fabrications. He's got an affinity for the unscrupulously powerful of the galaxy."

He made a concerned face. "Your father is stacking up on firepower?"

"When hasn't he?" I countered, helping myself to the unnatural pink fluff on a stick.

Between the two of us- myself requiring nearly twice as many calories a day than an adolescent male to simply maintain my weight- we'd practically demolished every last morsel. Normally I adhered to the strict diet _recommend_ by one of many doctors and scientists that poked and prodded Henry Lawson's pet project. Consisting of- but not restricted to- exact calorie intake per meal, which fruits and vegetables I was allowed to eat, an entire elimination of sweets, etcetera. In fact I had no idea what chocolate even tasted like until I was fifteen. One of many normalities Niket patiently introduced me to.

But I digress.

Guard forces at each of my father's estates and business complexes were well enough equipped and trained to face a small Alliance squad. After all, he had to protect his company's genetic research. Research deemed illegal- otherwise unethical- under all Council and Alliance space.

"Fair point." He nodded in understanding. Though not entirely aware of the extent of the illegalities Henry Lawson practiced- namely the amalgam of his own DNA he'd used to create myself and others like me- Niket was suspicious. My friend recognized the cruelties my father forced me to endure in public, so what he did behind closed doors was reasonably questionable.

"Mr. Hock deals heavily outside of Alliance jurisdiction." I was compelled to enlighten Niket. Perhaps making conversation would prolong the inevitable, but I was running on a tight schedule. I was more than ready to make my move.

Niket's eyebrows rose in interest. "And you know this how?"

"The usual way." I grinned wickedly.

Safeguards ran rampant through my father's networks, but he had been a fool to think he was capable of preventing an imprisoned, adolescent genius from discovering any and every detail of her history kept on and off file. Henry Lawson had tried to mold me into a savant of all trades, and espionage had become something of an entertaining pastime of mine. Bypassing cameras, decrypting locks into his bunkers, hacking terminals, and tapping into government frequencies were a few of my favorite activities. Keeping my tracks covered only added to the thrill.

But if my father had caught on earlier than he did, he probably would have planned to have had me anchored to the bottom of the harbor by cement much sooner than scheduled. Which is quite frankly a common method of disposing a body for murderers that live in coastal areas, and one I was not about to put past my father.

Niket thought so too. His inevitable reminder carried silently on the wind. "You need to be careful."

"It's too late for that," I whispered lowly. The surprise and frustration in Niket's eyes was never immediately vocalized. It was a rare day that he chose to disallow me an opportunity to explain myself. "I have to go, Niket. Tonight."

Understanding struck him fully, and his fist closed tightly around the virtually empty bag. Discussion of my imminent escape from my father's estate had been kept circumspect to elude suspicion, but had recently been subtly mentioned between us in passing. Running would take effort, and Niket had required a tad of forewarning.

A muscle at the base of his jaw twitched, either from worry or regret. "Where?"

"Terminus Systems maybe," I curtailed easily without a second thought.

Disclosing such an obvious location for a fugitive deterred him from further pondering my whereabouts. Commonly asked was the question, 'where else in the galaxy could the wanted hide?' I was far more resourceful than deserting permanently to a land of outlaws, but the less Niket knew, the better. A hard warning stare should have prevented him from pressing the issue of my security, but-

"He's going to chase you across the galaxy!"

_There it is._

"I've procured a couple safeguards."

In fact one said precaution patiently awaited my presence by the end of the boardwalk.

"Like the other week when you _procured_ barely hackable safeguards for Vahni's omni-tool?" He threw me an incredulous glare. "Now I can't scare away her boyfriends as easily."

I rolled my eyes. "Serves you right for trying to run her life."

"I'm her big brother. It's my job. You don't have a little sister. You wouldn't understand."

Oh, how mistaken he was.

"Then think outside the box if you want to get rid of those firewalls. A creative techy like yourself shouldn't have _too_ much trouble, decoding a few software algorithms. What was it you so suavely told Amber? 'Stand back, babe. There's no network this stud can't break.'" I teased joyously... for maybe the last time.

"Oh. Ha. Ha." His ears shaded scarlet as he tried to dismiss his wounded ego. Niket glanced suspiciously over his shoulder to be sure we were separated from eavesdroppers. We were. Others were too busy keeping up with children, were wrapped up in the person hanging on their arm, or debating between the ferris wheel and bumper cars- neither of which I'd been on that evening. I had been monitoring the local vicinity, albeit in a much less obvious way than via omni-tool. "What's your plan of action, Miri?"

The slightest of frowns broke through the mask I slipped on so easily. Truthfully there was still one minor detail I needed to amend before I could set out, but it wasn't safe to divulge. Not in public and not to anyone. My two main goals in that conversation were to put Niket's mind at ease when he discovered me missing-to know not to look for me, and to make him take heed in case Father pursued him for information regarding my whereabouts. "I break out, make a mad dash, and catch a shuttle off Earth."

"Why not leave once we're done here?"

"I've got a few loose ends to tie up."

"Always vague," He breathed out dejectedly. No matter how sourly disappointed he was, my friend was wise enough to refrain from pleading for more details regarding my grand escapade- to know I'd be safe. Niket was never very skilled at masking his emotions. War between frustration and deep concern raged across his features as he reeled on me. Brown eyes bore holes into the side of my head instead of the gray horizon beyond. "Are you sure you'll be alright? I-"

"I can take care of myself," I snapped.

The paperweight I'd swiped from Hock's inventory suddenly felt heavy in the holster beneath my wrap. Father had never allowed me to carry a firearm outside of the weaponry in the shooting range, and I had never been dense enough to ask. My biotics were already lethal enough to withhold a decent fight, but the razer pistol I'd smuggled back to Earth unnoticed would ensure my odds of success.

"I know," he conceded. "We've talked about it-you running away. Just, you've grown up in this glass palace, and you've had whatever you could ever want placed at your discretion on a silver platter. Unlimited credits. Won't the adjustment be, uh, culture shock?"

"You don't think I know how I've been raised?" I snapped icily, wrenching my eyes off the sea and shooting daggers at Niket. "I'm reminded ritually every bloody day about what I've been given, and how I'm designed to repay it all tenfold. Like it's a chore to provide _shelter_ for _his_ ungrateful, unwilling, genetic mutt! It's a pendulum swung over my head the size of a goddamn anvil. Do you know what it's like to be reminded every time you make a breakthrough in studies designed for people twice your age, or every time you formulate a more profitable budget outlook for your father's entire empire, that it's not your doing? That it's because your genes were diligently chosen, bought, and paid for? Do you know what it's like to fall asleep calculating the price of every breath you're going to take throughout the night? Or how it feels to be terrorized over the mere idea of asking for a glass of water because your existence adds to the _bill_? How about wishing you could just pay it all back with credits instead of some absurd, unfeasible assignment? To know that your failures are the only things you can take responsibility for because you don't deserve recognition for anything else, or the things you've been given? Anything is better than being a prisoner to self-deprecation."

"..."

"..."

"I'm sorry." Niket finally collapsed the silence. "I didn't mean to-"

"No, it's alright." I sighed and leaned forwards on my elbows. "My life has never been mine. I was born in a decorative prison. Makes sense to see it as a swanky kingdom."

"I know he's never treated you kindly." He admitted softly, patting my shoulder.

"I don't care whether he's decent to me," I denied harshly. My own experience with the patriarch dominating my life was not number one on my list of concerns, but escaping for the sake of my sanity and vitals were certainly close seconds. "Leaving is the most practical solution."

"So, what do you need from me?"

I smiled half-heartedly. "Does Sanjay still work for that taxi service?"

"Yeah, they overlooked his last speeding ticket. Mom and Dad weren't happy, but the company just buried their heads in the sand."

"Hah, you're kidding! Incompetent oversight on their part, or the Department of Transportation's?"

"Both. I told him he was lucky."

"He is," I agreed. "Anyways, I need you to have a car tonight in case things get messy, and my father goes for you."

"Wait! How messy are we talking about here?"

I gave him a hard state.

"Uh, yeah. Okay. I can do that." He nodded and pressed a few buttons on his omni-tool, double checking Sanjay's schedule. "When would I possibly need it?"

"By my estimates- two hours, fifteen minutes, and seventeen seconds from now."

"Oddly specific," Niket inquired with a raised brow.

I shrugged. "I'm regimented."

"A blind man could see it," he agreed with added cheek. "You know? A normal person would have just said, a little bit after 9:30."

_2132_. I almost couldn't help my need to correct him, but then...

"Wait a minute! You're tallying every minute of this conversation."

"Down to the second." I had a very strict schedule to adhere to. Countless years and days of monitoring the rotations of Father, his staff, and most importantly his security- had led me to deduce the patterns of their movements with a science. Their breaks, their duties, blind spots in their watch- all provided me with minimal, specific windows of opportunity for bypassing as much resistance as possible.

"How many do we have left?" There was what I had come to recognize as genuine curiosity in his eyes. No longer did I 'completely' doubt Niket at face value.

"One hundred and thirty-seven."

"Wow. Alright. What is that, about two minutes? Isn't all that counting distracting?"

"No." My brain had been constructed to process information at a much faster rate than an average genius. "Second nature."

"Hmm. Good to know." Contemplatively, Niket nodded. "Anything else?"

"There is actually."

What I would ask him next could have very easily cost Niket his life if my father ever discovered the part he would play in my escapade. After all, Henry Lawson had no trouble condemning those that chose to defy him- a record that disturbed me greatly. Perhaps he did suspect Niket's involvement, and my friend's eventual fate was punishment for the both of us.

But, I can only speculate.

"Which is?"

Reflecting back on my actions, it's possible to make a conjecture that I more than seized advantage of Niket's generosity. At the time, I paid no conscious consideration to the idea, and I was unsure of the instinctive feelings that attempted to waver my overpowering logical direction. But, now in hindsight I can recognize the... emotion for what it was. Guilt weighted in my chest heavily, yet I reasoned it away the same as any other.

"When you go into work tonight, head to Security Station B. There will be an _unanticipated_ malfunction in the power systems for a few minutes, and they'll ask you to repair the cameras. Set the vid feed to loop at precisely _2130_. Not a minute before or after. Can you handle that? If not, I'll do it."

Determination set across his features. "Of course I can. But, how do you know they'll ask for me specifically?"

I tossed our trash in the nearest recycling bin with a degree of smugness. "I've already taken the liberty of rewriting your supervisor's schedule. Everyone else will be occupied with their own dilemma in D-Wing before your shift even starts."

"Aren't you resourceful," he complimented, returning my smile. "So, am I only one that gets a goodbye in person?"

"I don't have other friends, Niket. I have contacts. Contacts are expendable when necessary." True friends were the only ones that deserved a farewell, and I only had one.

"Aw, Miri, I'm non-expendable," he gushed. An air of amusement had flooded his adenoidal tone. Aside from that he seemed truly flattered.

My blue eyes rolled dramatically. "Well, I'm not throwing you away just yet. You could still prove yourself useful to me."

He smiled, though he knew I was mostly sincere. I could release him if my needs demanded it, but I had no desire to. I wanted to walk away with one good thing from this life.

"I'm eternally grateful." Less humor this time, more seriousness. "We'll stay in touch, right?"

"I can't promise anything," I reluctantly told him. "But, I want to. If I achieve the desired outcome- and I always do- I will contact you within five solar days."

He grinned. "You're gonna make me worry that long?"

I scowled dryly. "You'll be fine, Niket. Nothing to concern yourself with when it comes to me."

"If you say so."

"I do say so, and I should go." **  
><strong>

Lacking any predatory advances, he leaned close and placed a quick, chaste kiss on my forehead. Simply a familial gesture to let me know that I was important to him. Niket had never asked for more. He was safe, comfortable. "I hope you find what you're looking for, Miri."

I returned his gesture in kind by pecking his cheek, sparing him a final smile, and lurking away with defined purpose.

Several hundred feet out of Niket's line of sight, a male figure tailed my every step. A block away from the skycar he had taken me to the boardwalk in, my keeper sidled up to me. To keep fellow pedestrians at bay, we exchanged amiable smiles as he greeted me, "Is the air cleared, Miss Lawson?"

"I'd prefer not to discuss it, Commander." I kept my pace even and my eyes straight ahead.

"Fair enough." The dark-haired gentleman consented with a kind nod. He was a tall, broad-shouldered man in his early forties with a considerate, disciplined disposition. In the two months I had known him, the commander had proven himself very reliable when it came to not crossing personal boundaries.

We remained in relative silence until we were seated inside the car. Along the way I picked up on odd conversations occurring between the bystanders on the boulevard, simply to put into practice what the commander had begun teaching me. Most were trivial: a break-up here, a discussion about midterm exams there. It was the man on the phone with his attorney regarding tax evasion that caught my interest. I sniggered silently, and my teacher caught my eye with a certain mirth.

"Here," he murmured once we were in the air, passing me a heavy pistol. "Put this in that holster of yours, and rearrange it a bit. Security shouldn't see it the way you have it now, but you never know."

My eyebrows shot up in surprise, and I revealed the Razer beneath my wrap. "I already have one."

He eyed me incredulously. "And how do you know it'll work? Better yet, have you ever fired one?"

I hadn't actually tested the brand new weapon. For all I knew, the manufacturers could have bungled the firing mechanism, or the chamber. In fact, most of my weapons experience consisted of firing classic 12-gauge shotguns for sport. The commander had been the first to show me how to use a pistol. They handled very differently.

My keeper made a good point, but I countered with, "How do you know that'll work?"

Another disbelieving stare. "It is an M-3 Predator. I had you use it last week. Cerberus loves giving these to their agents. Besides, I have been using that one since First Contact. It's saved my life more than once. I would not give you anything I wouldn't use myself."

The unloaded gun in my hands felt a little bit heavier all of a sudden. Was the story supposed to soften me up? Or, was it a legitimate gift from a mentor? I had yet to decide. But for the time being, it was best to appease the man Cerberus had placed me into the custody of. So, I did what any good student would do, obediently followed instructions, and accepted the peace offering. "Thank you."

The commander gave me lopsided smile as the skycar descended undetected into the wooded boondocks of my father's property. "I'll move up half a klick closer to the stables in case you require my assistance. Radio me if you need any back up."

"Acknowledged," I muttered, double checking my limited equipment in the backpack security had seen me depart for my walk with.

"Good luck, kid."

* * *

><p><strong>AN: **Hey, guys! Sorry for the little delay there in getting this chapter out. This was going to be much bigger, but I've split it into two, so I'll try to bust out the other one for you guys by the end of the week. And I'll reveal who Miranda's mentor is, and what went about with her pairing up with a Cerberus Operative. Thanks for all the faves, follows, and reviews! You guys are amazing!

Please leave a review with your thoughts!

_02/24/2014- _I've made some serious provisions to the next four chapters- chapters 1-5- regarding Laira's role, and adjustments to grammar. Including this one.


	4. Beginnings Pt 3 Responsibilities

**Pt. 3 Responsibilities**

_**2130 Hours, Wednesday, November 12, 2166 / Hunter's Hill, Greater Sydney Metropolitan Area, NSW, Australia, Earth, Sol, Local Cluster / 19 years, 6 months, 11 days Pre Reaper invasion of Earth**_

_Ten._

"Oriana and the OSD have been recovered." I chattered rapidly into my earpiece, sliding down the final marble staircase in the gardens and out of sight. The larger the distance between myself and the house, the better.

Getting inside had been simple. No one suspected I had ulterior motives when I returned from my evening '_walk_' around the outskirts of the forty-five acre property. In fact, the servants hardly ever paid me much mind, unless I specifically approached them- which I rarely ever did. And that made my journey into Father's private laboratories all the more uncomplicated.

Apart from the VI that monitored her health and the infrequent visits from her pediatrician and the other medical personnel that came to provide her daily needs, Oriana was once again alone in a sterile, powder blue room. The moment her slate gray eyes met my own- made lighter and more ominous by age and experience- she had smiled and cooed at me in recognition, clapping her hands and extending her soft little arms in the air in a demand that I hold her. It was never a desire I resisted, or bothered denying her. Since the first time I'd caught sight of her- growing steadily and on her way to infancy inside of a birthing tank- she had become my world and the one person I would do absolutely anything for.

My sister was a well-behaved baby. She had never cried during the irregular trips I had risked my neck to overtly come see her. Instead, she watched my every move with keen attentiveness, laughed at the trivial games and faces I made up for her, and craved my affection. She trusted me inexplicably. A factor that I seized advantage of when I administered a fast-acting dose of a harmless anesthetic. Both for her sake and my own. I wouldn't risk Father's staff hearing an infant cry- one they did not yet even know existed.

Escaping would prove challenging enough without any additional safety hazards. This was a mission that took over five months to brew any sort of faith in. For the first three I had researched all of my options. I had known almost immediately that Cerberus was the only organization in existence that could offer what I both needed and desired, but I had delayed approaching them directly for risk of exposure to my father- an avid supporter of theirs. I'd had to convince Cerberus I was an asset of higher value than he could ever be.

Apparently- much to my great pleasure- the Illusive Man thought as much. And he had gone as far as to give me until the last possible date to be absolutely comfortable enough with my keeper before he gave the order to move out.

"Excellent," Came my mentor's praise.

_Nine._

"Making my way to you now." I murmured, jogging towards his regular landing zone.

_Eight._

There was a brief pause, and I recognized the muted noise of a silenced pistol go off through the comm chatter. "Negative. Alarms are going to go off any minute. Security is pouring out of the compound. Head for the rear wall."

_Seven._ I mentally kept count through his instructions. Keeping distance with the allotted time left on the clock was crucial.

"Flores and Lentz are on standby for intercept. I'll draw the guards' attention to the stables. Once you've rendezvoused, loop around and meet with me there." He continued.

_Six._

I spared a glance at our package. Flores and Lentz were two variables I still had my doubts about. Simply because I had entrusted the security of my sister's future to Cerberus High Command did not mean I had absolute faith in all of their people. Specifically two I knew very little of from personal observation.

But, the Illusive Man had promised me their loyalty to my cause. He was the only individual that had proven himself trustworthy enough to rely on. They had not asked questions. The operatives had accepted their task of providing extra security.

Yet, my sister's safety was at risk, and those factors meant nothing in the face of her possible future with my father.

Expressing my doubt, I asked, "But are they-"

"Do it." My keeper ordered sharply as I came close to a passing sentry, oblivious to my presence hidden amongst shrubbery.

_Five._

I bit my lip- forced to silence myself and extend confidence that I wasn't comfortable giving. I held my breath while I tracked her footsteps treading away from my location until I could safely make chase once more. She paused a few yards from my location, shuffled her feet on the red brick pathway to swivel at her watch, and slowly carried onwards. Seizing the opportunity of a blind spot, I silently rushed forwards, protecting Oriana's cheeks from being scratched by the limbs of the bush we maneuvered through to reach the clearing leading to the woods. I breathed quietly, "Yes, Commander."

If Flores and Lentz were anything but helpful to my mission, I would regard my mentor's and the Illusive Man's choice in assets as a betrayal, and I would do everything in my power to dispose of the two agents.

_Four._

I pumped my legs harder than I had ever forced myself to run as I made a beeline for the woods and undergrowth, steadily holding my impenetrable biotic barrier behind me with one hand. I had yet to fall into the line of sight of a sniper or watchman, but I was not going to risk the unpleasantries that came with the experience. I kept my breathing as silent as possible, as I dodged in and out of the nighttime shadows of the garden, through an open field, and into the underbrush.

_Three._

Furious demands echoed on the wind not thirty yards to my back, alarm bells clang from deep within the compound and all around, and the ferocious threat of being tracked down by Father's prize bloodhounds presented itself from where the guards had clustered. Howls and furious barks erupted from canines held steady at their trainer's sides.

_Two._

Unease slapped me across the face, and for the first time since I'd joined Cerberus, I was uncertain as to what would occur if I was incapable of bolting out the backdoor by myself with a snoozing infant in a sling around my front undetected, and absconding from the property. There would be no escape from these hounds' olfactory senses. Zigzagging through the trees, hiding, spraying the ground with pepper, doubling back, crossing through a stream- none of that would be effective. My best chance was to outrun them, and if push came to shove- utilize my two resources. Ducking behind the trunk of a eucalyptus tree on my left, I murmured into my radio. "Dogs."

"Can you-"

_One._

Boom!

The ground rumbled beneath the soles of my feet, heat erupted from the building I had just vanished from, and I stumbled a bit in surprise, jostling my still sound asleep sister. Her big eyes were closed, and little red lips were parted as she breathed steadily in slumber, resting peacefully in her sling. Out of instinctive concern I reached for her tiny wrist to feel a steadily drumming pulse, and sighed in relief.

"That was a little bigger than we agreed on," A hiss rang in my ear.

Judging the length of the shadows extending outwards from the mansion, the blast may very well have been.

Five minutes prior, I had been inside the lab that I was manufactured in- that my sisters were created in. On the same floor had been the rooms where I was routinely- forcefully, painfully- exposed to secondary bouts of element zero, where others like me had been executed. I had three objectives: rescue my sister from an egomaniacal madman and a life that would never belong to her, recover an OSD with all uncorrupted data on the details of my genetic tailoring and biotic capabilities for Cerberus to study the possibilities of human advancement, and upload a polymorphic scripting virus into my father's copies of the data located anywhere- low lying extranet channels, company cell blocks, encryptions, etcetera. No one else would ever be subjected to the treatment I had been, nor would anyone further be needlessly slaughtered through the ways of Henry Lawson. I had completed my assignment with almost expert proficiency, but I had chosen to add a few details to the finale. To let the labs stand would have felt like a betrayal. So, I had set a low grade bomb beneath the floor panels for a precise and restrained explosion.

Maybe the mansion was much more flammable than I had anticipated.

A louder chorus of howls came from the clearly upset animals. Their ears must have been ringing. _I hope that will play to my benefit._

"Theatrics were never my intention." I muttered dryly.

"I'm aware," My mentor answered. I thought I could hear a trace of amusement in his voice, but discerning emotions was terribly distracting from the new, aimless gunfire bursting behind me. "What happened to simply purging the data, and _low grade_ explosives?"

"Insurance. The labs are gone now. It'll cost a fortune to rebuild." I answered darkly, panting as I attempted to outrun the guards that pursued me- as fast as most olympians could. For one of the first times in my life, I was thrilled to see father's gifts of physical superiority put to good use. "I'm carrying the only three copies of the data."

"This is your operation." He consented.

I smiled at the subtle hint of approval, but the expression quickly faded when a voice exploded over the loudspeakers.

"Miranda!" The screech was broadcast abruptly over all forty-five acres, bouncing off trees and swallowing the attention of any being with the ability to hear. My heart shot straight to a stop in a mixture of satisfaction and anxiety. I had specifically chosen a time for this extraction that would not coincide with Henry Lawson's presence on the property. Yet, he had arrived home early. He must have suspected my intentions. "Don't bother running. There's nowhere in this galaxy I won't find you!"

Foolishly in my surprise, I spared a glance behind me to be sure I was out of range of the guards that had fanned out twenty plus yards to my flank- firing stunners at anything that moved between the trees- and lost several seconds in my lead. I paused in my tracks- hiding in the bushes resting on the edge of a stream, listening for the sounds of clanking armor, muffled breath, the growl of a canine, a beep of a thermal scanner, or a readjustment of a firearm. I wasn't very far ahead. In fact, one thing was incredibly clear- I was being flanked, cornered like an animal.

The wall was merely another thirty yards away. On the other side was my extraction- or an onslaught of rival arms hired by my father. I could have sprinted to find out, but there would have been a lack of focus on my enemies, and I'd have been struck by a stray bullet. Security was far too close for sudden movement- even in the dark.

"Lentz, Flores: where are they?" I whispered lowly into my one-to-one radio, breathing out heavily and fishing for a response I sincerely hoped wasn't a mistake.

Gunfire chorused across the property an acre east.

"Hear that?" My mentor asked through a series of heavy breathing. I knew he was running.

"Yes."

"That's Flores in the field playing red herring."

"Where's Lentz?" I murmured frustratedly, freezing at the sound of a snapping twig far too close for my liking. He was supposed to be there.

"Looking for you."

_Looking for me?_ I nearly echoed in disbelief. Lentz had been instructed to stay on guard had he been needed.

Then, there in my hiding place amongst the bushes, came a nightmarish hiss. I felt all of the heat drain from my face and I blanched at the sight of the unintentional disturbance I had caused the red-bellied black snake. Startled awake, the serpent threateningly recoiled into a striking stance and bared its fangs to frighten me away.

_Fantastic._

A part of me knew the animal was merely feigning the aggressiveness- that it was terrified and only wanted me to back away from its lair. But my larger, surmounting prejudice against the venomous creature won over. Instinctively my arms drew protectively around my sister and a blue corona encircled my wrists as a beating of footsteps fell on the marsh not far from me. Instantly a sapphire ball of energy struck the unsuspecting serpent, tossing it several yards.

"Ah!" Someone began to squeal in surprise when the unexpected drop landed squarely on their shoulders- only to be abruptly silenced by two quick, muffled cracks of a pistol. The man and dog hit the ground with resounding thuds.

"Lawson?" A new voice called out, not bothering to maintain a low profile. Male. Young adult.

_Lentz._

My own pistol drawn at the ready, I stepped out from my cover, careful not to aim the barrel of my gun at him just yet. For all of three seconds, I glared daggers at him. He was tall and lanky with neatly trimmed dark hair and eyes. I noted the beads of sweat rolling down his forehead- glistening in streaks of moonlight- and the heaving of his chest beneath Cerberus black attire. If he was surprised to find an unconscious infant in a carrier around my middle, he only showed it for a split second. I growled suspiciously, "You took your time."

"Held up." He shook his head and sidled up beside me. Breaking into a canter, he pointed back to the wall I had been aiming to find refuge in. "That way's blocked by guards. Flores had to move the car to keep the fire off. She'll be in the field in exactly two minutes."

"So we'll be surrounded until then? Playing cat and mouse on the edge of the woods?"

"Basically." He muttered as we ducked into a new set of cover to scan the upcoming sector we would encompass on the outskirts of the underbrush. I leveled my sights at a faint movement across the meadow, but pulled back when I realized there was a squad of soldiers fanned out one hundred yards to my left, scouting the clearing.

"Bogies. " Lentz grumbled. "Flores needs to get here soon."

"What happened to your comm?" I muttered disbelievingly. Constantly revising a withdrawal strategy was unsavory to say the least. The approaching pounding rhythm of Father's guards as Lentz and I darted perpendicular from our Plan B rendezvous point towards our tertiary only made the situation worse.

"Hacked. Flores' too."

Henry Lawson continued over the loudspeaker. "I will find you, Miranda! And when I do, you'll wish you'd never been born! Now, give her back!"

"He's charming. How'd a kid like you get mixed up in this?" Lentz whistled the same moment a barrage of bullets struck the tree I hid behind and my barrier. He had not been informed of my relationship with the man I had rescued the anonymous infant from- the one I was shielding with my life.

"Now's not the time to make conversation." I snapped, intermittently shifting Oriana into a safer position and firing at the now charging security force. Thankfully, we had the advantage in our cloaked position. "They've seen us."

"Come out now, Miranda, and I'll order a ceasefire!" Father shouted once more. "If you oblige, I'll see to it no harm will come to you, or Oriana."

I found that promise entirely unlikely. More like I got shot in the head as soon as Ori and the OSD were back in his grasp.

"Don't even think about it," The commander's demand suddenly rang in my ear once more.

"I'm not stupid," I snarled indignantly, pulling the trigger and watching one of the silhouettes fall limply to the ground. That was the second time in my life I had ever killed a sentient being. Not that I felt particularly terrible about the incident in the first place.

"Nice shot," Lentz complemented over the rhythm of beating flames, strategic commands, and an approaching turbine. From his own hiding place, the lieutenant pointed outwards. "That should be Flores."

Casting a glance through the outlying flora, I watched the rectangular object Lentz had directed my attention to. Instead of hovering in one place, the car settled down smoothly on a patch of wild grass fifteen yards from the perimeter, and switched the engines off. The remaining four sentries did not fire at it once- which automatically raised my qualms. All of which were confirmed the moment the hatch opened and three spares burst from within forming a blockade around none other than my father.

"Or not," I sneered, heavily weighing the options of retreating versus remaining still. I desperately wished to know where Flores and my teacher were dallying.

"Dammit," Lentz growled so lowly under his breath that only a human with genetically altered auditory receptors- like myself- would be able to hear him. The lieutenant motioned a command to refrain from moving or causing any noise. I nodded in acknowledgement, glaring steadily.

"Miranda," Henry called out for me once more. This time in a soft voice that made my skin crawl, as though he were simply reprimanding a misbehaved toddler. His cold eyes could not pinpoint our location, but he knew that somewhere in the marsh, I lurked with his intended successor. I was nearly inclined to train my gifted pistol on his heart and pull the trigger, but that would have alerted the attention of his entourage. "You've caused quite a bit of trouble this evening. A shame to have this happen the night before your birthday party, dear. I was going to introduce your new sister to all of my friends. Now, the lawn is ruined, and I'll be required to force everyone to reschedule. Come out, come out, and we'll settle this like grown-ups."

Heat flooded my face in frustration before I could rationalize his manipulative behavior away and compartmentalize the resulting anger it inflicted me with. The lieutenant stared at me, but said nothing. Henry Lawson would have presented Oriana as his newest daughter during the sixteenth celebration of his first success and seventh failure- claiming she had lived with her surrogate mother for the first few months of her life. And not two weeks later, he would have feigned the cause of my disappearance as some horrible accident. Irritating me out of rational strategizing was his goal, and I would not give Henry Lawson the satisfaction. So, I breathed in slowly and exhaled the moment the commander decided to buzz in my ear once more.

He told me, "Flores is in the air. Your father's men are in my sights. I'm just north of you. Have Lentz draw their attention twelve yards south of your location. Stay put, and run to the car on my mark."

The seconds ticked by agonizingly slow- until the first crack of fire brought one of the thugs to his knees. Immediately, the squad responded, ushering my father into the safety of a protective human shield and returning shots. Flexing my mind and forearms I procured a sapphire corona around Oriana and myself, attempting to create a steady biotic barrier- on top of the kinetic one attached to my person. A second round from within the trees drew their attention, and when they realized they were surrounded, the guns for hire motioned to retreat into cover across from us.

"Don't you dare! Keep at it." I heard my father order from his sheltered position, causing a few of his employees to weigh the value of their lives against a hefty paycheck. Only when a second car with an open hatch lingered down with the engines running in between the perimeter and the ground they stood on did the thugs pause.

"Miranda, go. We'll cover you."

I didn't have to be told twice.

Flores sat in the driver's seat holding a gun in one hand and a wheel in the other. Dents, scrapes, and cracks from bullets had rendered the exterior in desperate need of body work. But the car flew, and that was all I needed.

I bolted, and the moment I breached the tree line I was almost immediately flanked by the broad and lanky forms of my mentor and Lieutenant Lentz. Several times, I pulled the trigger of the Predator as projectiles bounced off our slowly degenerating shields. We had nearly made it when they finally broke, and my mentor was forced to erect himself before me.

"Petrovsky?! Not another step or I'll have my men kill you all where you stand." Henry Lawson suddenly roared with contempt. He had brazenly asserted himself forward, a new confidence in his canter. Two of his guards flanked him, rifles at the ready. His steely eyes were crazed with hostility at the sight of the man at the end of his scope.

My father knew my mentor? The man standing between myself and a bullet?

My eyes grew wide with shock for just an instant before narrowing in suspicious hostility. I bristled with the idea that the Illusive Man and Oleg Petrvosky had been dishonest with me regarding their affiliations. I felt betrayed as Petrovsky signaled for us to pause in our race, and I shifted Oriana into the most protective stance possible.

"I know your face!" My father continued, jabbing his gun in our direction. "An Alliance poster child turned Cerberus. What do you think you're doing on my lawn? Surely the Illusive Man has nothing to do with this?"

Perhaps they didn't know each other after all.

"Don't shoot, Mr. Lawson. The Illusive Man will not take kindly to losing humanity's finest." Oleg Petrovsky reasoned evenly, tilting his head back in my direction, and providing me the sufficient opportunity to slink sideways to the car ever so slowly.

My father's face quickly rotated between shades of scarlet and violet. His aim strained steadily on my mentor's forehead, his eyes found mine. And in them was the exact loathing we shared for one another. "Cerberus has stolen my property! If the Illusive Man has any respect for our partnership he will return it to me immediately."

"My sister in not your property!" I snarled, feeling the kinetic energy of my shields begin to reboot.

"Your very genetic code was created by my hand!" He growled viciously. "You walk around as the embodiment of everything I paid for! _My_ research pulses through your veins, Miranda!...And you've destroyed every other copy."

"So, what are you going to do, Father?" I mocked. "Tear it out of me? Tear it out of Oriana?"

"Oriana is to be part of my dynasty. You..." His eyes grew colder. "You've proven that is no longer an option for yourself."

"Mr. Lawson, the Illusive has this entire compound surrounded," Petrovsky bluffed impressively, though I made a mental note to be cautious in the future about his ease with deliberately lying. "He sends his apologies for the condition of your estate, but Miranda is a vital asset to Cerberus and the advancement of humanity... And he has judged that you are no longer fit to care for her or her sister. Stand down, and do not attempt to pursue us."

My father audibly grumbled low in his throat, and pulled the hammer of his pistol back, readying himself for our execution. In the same instant there was shimmering crackle of purple light that swooped across Oriana and my body when my kinetic barrier reached optimal strength. Mustering every ounce of my telekinetic power, my sapphire corona surged across my arms and a blue ball of transparent dark energy struck him full in the clavicle. The wind knocked entirely from his lungs, Henry Lawson returned to Earth's surface the moment I lunged into the car.

"About time!" Flores laughed darkly, though I found nothing amusing regarding our predicament.

"Move!" Petrovsky bellowed.

"I'll find her, Miranda!" Father screeched one last threat before the skycar hatch closed and we were off.

No one followed us.

Once we had finally departed Earth en route for the Citadel, I spent my time personally caring for Oriana for what I knew to be the last time, hacking security cameras, monitoring fellow travelers and supposed civilians, and tapping outgoing communications to the human home world. Yet, there had been no sign of Father's bounty hunters. But, I was still left with a nagging, foreboding sensation that some time in the future, somewhere undisclosed, Henry Lawson would hunt for Oriana.

And I would be perpetually vigilant. She would never know me- or be a part of my new, dangerous life- but she would be cared for by two, loving parents I had dutifully- anonymously- selected from a list of top-tier adoption agencies that were unwittingly under Cerberus influence. Oriana's life would be normal, blissful, and her own- without my direct influence.

It was for the best.

_**1300 Hours, Saturday, November 15, 2166 / Presidium Commons, Citadel, Widow, Serpent Nebula / 19 years, 6 months, 8 days Pre Reaper invasion of Earth**_

"Congratulations, Miss Lawson. You've successfully completed your first special reconnaissance mission for Cerberus." Petrovsky whispered with faint traces of sympathy in his tone as we leaned against a railing in the Presidium side by side two days after my sixteenth birthday. I had only ever been to the Presidium twice before, and never to the wards. The Citadel was an uncharted experience with more races and cultures than I had ever seen in one place.

Directly below, Flores- posed as a social worker- introduced an eager young couple to their new daughter. The little girl smiled widely at them in the exact manner she had once for an estranged sibling. Tears of happiness brimmed in the woman's dark eyes, and she clutched the infant tightly, whispering greetings and issuing kisses. Her husband, although more reserved, reacted very similarly. They were going to be a genuine family.

"I had an obligation to Oriana. She was my responsibility to find a proper home for," I relented flatly, nodding in approval. "And now she has one."

Petrovsky stood silently for a moment. His dark eyes lingered, "Mr. and Mrs. Roshed were a good choice. Respectable, kind-"

"And normal," I added as I recalled the thorough background investigation I had procured on them.

Both native to Melbourne and descending from well-doing families, Rasheeda Walker and Baz Roshed had become college sweethearts in the late 2140's and were married soon after graduation. In 2157 they had been hired as freelance researchers in a joint effort between Baria Frontiers and ExoGeni Corporations to scout and chart potential systems to colonize. For awhile they had enjoyed the adventure of space travel, but had eventually taken up more stable careers at Baria Frontiers' in Nos Astra in hopes of raising a child of their own. But, when Rasheeda learned that she was incapable of bearing her own offspring, those dreams eventually shifted to adoption. For years they had been on multiple waiting lists, nearly closed a few, but had always been overlooked by the system. Oriana had become their best chance and last, and I knew they would care for her- treasure her and the opportunity she provided.

"They'll be an excellent match," Petrovsky added.

Below us, finishing up paperwork, Rasheeda passed Oriana to Baz. The man smiled dazzling at her as she sat in his lap. Her chubby hands reached up to touch his face, and she giggled, cooing. Discreetly, Baz glanced around the vicinity, and planted a kiss on the top of his daughter's head.

Wrenching my gaze away, I faced my mentor and gestured outwards. "So, what's next for me?"

Considerately, Petrovsky gave me a closed smile. "Next, _we_ follow Lentz to Illium and make sure he's settling in nicely in his new abode."

"Do you think he'll grow restless- keeping an eye on Oriana for the next few years?" I wondered aloud.

"He is military. He'll want to get on to a ship sooner or later," Oleg explained. "But, for now, he's happy serving as a _special security officer_. Besides, Illium is the gateway to the Terminus Systems. Cerberus command will keep him occupied."

"What about you?" I raised an imploring eyebrow, evacuating my weight from my elbows and drawing myself up to my full height. "You're military. Won't you want to get back onto a ship?"

"I find special assignments equally fulfilling. Training a new operative," He threw me a pointed expression. "...Will be rewarding in and of itself. I promise to provide you with all the tools and experience necessary before I unleash you onto the galaxy."

His jibe actually caused me to smile.

"You'll be able to make quite an impression on history, Miranda. Many people wish for that same gift, but you were born capable. I can see your drive and efficiency. And now you have the means to implement those talents." Petrovsky's tone became serious as though he were lecturing a child that had yet to understand their own strength. "But I want to make sure it's pointed in the proper direction. The Illusive Man and I will discuss when we believe it best for you to carry on without a mentor."

I scowled sharply. I longed to prove my worth to the Illusive Man- the man that had risked millions of credits in sponsorship to protect my sister and offer me an ample variety of opportunity. I would do anything to secure his trust and confidence. After all, he had more than earned mine. "And until then?"

"We wait for our next assignment." He answered.

"Any idea when that'll come?" I questioned. Eagerness pricked me in the shoulder. I was more than ready to begin my new life- intrigued, curious, enthralled, and even excited. This was what I wanted.

"Soon. For now, we begin our lessons in strategizing."

That peaked my interest. Of course, my imagination wandered to methods of infiltration, different routes of approaching different species, execution of combat tactics. So when I asked how we would get started, I was surprised to see his grin return.

"With a game of chess." Petrvosky told me, and led the way to a nearby retailer to purchase a set that he would keep for almost twenty years.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: **Hello everyone! Thanks for reading! Sorry for the delay. I just started a new regimen with school this last week, and it was very stressful. XD But, it's past and hopefully things will be settling down.

Just so you know, I went back and edited a few dates on logs for clarification (I made up my mind.)

Hope you guys enjoyed this chapter! Please review! Your feedback really means a lot!


	5. Beginnings Pt 4 Prejudices

**Pt. 4 Prejudices**

_**1600 Hours, Sunday, March 8, 2167 / Omega Station, **Sahrabarik**, Omega Nebula / 19 years, 2 months, 15 days Pre Reaper invasion of Earth**_

For years I had practiced the art of gauging the values and codes others asserted themselves to live by. What lines people would, and could, and would not cross; and how to press those boundaries.

Father had made sure I perfected this form of observation- both unintentionally and purposefully.

Inadvertently, he had made me automatically suspicious of anyone's integrity. No matter how many supposed morals an individual possessed, I found the possibility that anyone was inherently _good_ extremely unlikely. There would always be the occasional scumbag willing to sell out their closest friend for the sake of their own skin, blatantly make inappropriate advances on someone too young to even legally obtain a driver's license, or murder their own flesh and blood. Simply put, I believed that for the right price or presented with the perfect opportunity; a sizable portion of the galaxy could be bought or cajoled into betraying principle. Some would even do it willingly- eagerly. **  
><strong>

But, there were morals. Granted, most were aligned with and based on the sociological, cultural norms of the environment people were bred into and associated with as they grew. That key bit was something very important to be aware of when it came to dealing with dozens of alien species with hundreds of different cultures and customs. Sometimes, implementing them even kept me alive.

Alas, there were still many that defined their own system of rights and wrongs, and drew a very hefty line where those virtues were never to be breached.

I soon learned that Oleg Petrovsky was one of these people.

On one of our first assignments together, we had made a trip to Omega to track down an Alliance Science Officer that had turned traitor. Rumor had it, she was planning to sell more than humanity's secrets to none other the than the batarian hegemony. An advanced biochemist well versed in building bio weapons, had developed a knack for making people disappear over the past few weeks. And the evidence we had racked up across the Terminus Systems was more than implicating. When we finally did trace her last known destination, we were two steps ahead.

Apart from the duration of my temporary stay on Illium, I had never really been beyond the Attican Traverse- outside of Alliance or Council Space. While Illium had been a pearl of asari society with culture and class, Omega was grotesque. The grooves of my boots would stick to the unidentifiable substances spilled across the metal ground with every step I took, those that were too lazy to find a trash shoot had taken up to littering and forming piles of garbage in alleyways and on sidewalks, vagrants and drunkards were just as common outside of bars and dives as they were in residential areas, and the stenches- ignored by air control- were nauseating. All of the scenic marvels were enough to almost overlook the intriguing architectural feat of an entirely functional space station built into the side of an asteroid.

"_This_ is Omega?" I scoffed a few minutes after we had wandered through the docking bay. Merchants hustled new arrivals along the catwalks into buying what I assumed to be stolen goods, and I had to physically shove my way past a few. Some even sent out wide-eyed young children in hopes of manipulating newcomers with pity.

"Not what you were expecting?" Petrovsky asked curiously as he lurked steadily beside me.

"I expected pirates, vagabonds. But, this," I gestured distastefully at the flowing crowds. I had anticipated the Terminus Systems to be a region of space filled with outlaws and the lawless. That it was mostly a dangerous frontier where only the desperate or criminal ventured. "This is such a pisshole. Maybe I gave them a little too much credit thinking they'd live somewhere a bit more...respectable."

Amusement flickered behind Petrovsky's stoic hazel eyes. "You're not in Sydney anymore, kid."

"I think I realized that, thanks." I glared sharply, though he paid me no mind.

I detested the fact that he referred to me as a child. Granted, since the onslaught of puberty at the age of twelve, my physical growth rate had slowed tremendously to a permanent trudge. Father had created a living time capsule, a permanently youthful spectacle. A bloody statue. By my estimates, my body aged at relatively 0.528 times that of an average human being. Which meant that I would not even be thirty until the chronological age of forty-six standard Earth years. At the time of my Cerberus recruitment, I could have passed for a fourteen year old only if I was lucky. Thankfully, to those with the proper amount of entrepreneurial motivation, age meant little, and mentally and emotionally, I was well beyond my years.

Age meant something to Petrovsky, however. There were two types of people he would never allow any harm to come to: innocent civilians and children. It was part of his moral code. And, at times, I could visually observe the war- over whether I was a child to keep safe, or a lethal, vital asset to utilize- raging in his altogether serenely confident eyes. But, my mentor was a smart man. So, he would keep his opinions out of the way of Cerberus' goals, and do as the Illusive Man instructed. Which meant training me properly in espionage, tactics, combat, reconnaissance, and so on.

Not to say that it didn't give us our fair share of problems throughout the beginning of our partnership.

"Oleg Petrovsky," An asari greeted cooly- without turning to face us-in the middle of the seediest night club I thought I would ever see. The platform we stood on was heavily guarded, elevated above the rest of Afterlife as though whoever stood there was to be greatly admired, and the asari that prowled in front of the couch- with everyone beneath her- stood with her back to us. Like a queen in her throne room.

We approached Aria T'Loak on the matter at hand. I had been briefed on the de facto pirate queen before Oleg took me to see her. Relatively a century's worth of commando experience under her belt, she was reportedly ruthless, possessive, mistrustful, and a tireless opportunist. She had an entire station defense force under her iron fist, and she made a show of pointing out that she was not to be trifled with. Though Cerberus had no significant influence over Omega- in the short time the organization existed- we had developed a mutually beneficial relationship of turning the other cheek when it came to dealing with one another's operatives. Unless, of course, any of her dealings ever put humanity in harms way. Thankfully, it never really came to that.

"Aria," Oleg gave a courteous smile as a gruff batarian halted our ascent up the stairs and ran an omni-tool scan over us, examining for any extensive weaponry or wires.

I kept my face expressionless when it was my turn. _Paranoid. Everyone here is carrying a sidearm. But, understandable if you haven't got anyone you can trust completely._

"They're clean." The batarian informed his boss, and she rotated her head to Petrovsky with a malicious grin upon her violet features.

"How amusing to have you back on my station. What has Cerberus gotten its slippery little paws into this time that's made you stray so far from home?" The inflection of her voice was equally as condescendingly entertained as it was suspicious.

"We're on a hunting trip," Petrovsky volunteered with a polite smile.

"Why else would the Illusive Man unleash his tracking hounds?" Humor flickered in Aria's steely, calculating blue eyes. Nonchalantly, she made a one-eighty, folded her arms across her chest, and dismissed the nonessential staff in the booth- mainly the dancers. She still erected herself two steps above us, but I could tell that height was certainly not what caused so many to fear her. Overall, she was petite with a minute frame, unusual facial markings skirted across her cheeks and forehead- reminiscent of eyebrows. But, her shoulders were drawn back, her head held high, and a permanent glare had molded itself across her expression. Aria radiated arrogance. "Omega is as good a place to start as any, but you're going to have trouble if you don't narrow your search down to what- or _who_- specifically."

"We're not here to cause you any problems, Aria," Petrovsky reassured.

"I know that. Your master isn't going to send out his precious pets to break our deal so frivolously. That would be stupid. But," She tilted her head sideways in my direction ever so slightly. "It does seem a little dense to send out such a dainty, youthful breed to such a _dark, dangerous_ place."

"This is Miranda Lawson," Petrovsky's voice emitted a trace of pride, but I was extremely hesitant to believe it was genuine. In the long run, I was his designated assignment, not his dedicated protege. "She's one of our most intelligent and capable operatives."

"We'll see," She surmised. "Still, that doesn't explain why you're here, Oleg- wasting my valuable time."

Her callous method of mentioning the Illusive Man was definitely irritating, and I felt a spark of defensive loyalty. My boss was a good man, he was not a ruthless cult leader that heedlessly threw his employees into anything they couldn't handle. He truly cared about his people, and was willing to make sacrifices for us. We were not his minions, or slaves. We were given freewill, opportunity, and he trusted our judgement. The Illusive Man deserved better.

"There's an Alliance traitor that either already has made, or is going to make a stop on your station. The trail goes cold here. I figured you might be interested in exchanging some information on her."

"Omega is crawling with scabs and vermin from around the galaxy. Your race included. So, tell me why I should care about one of humanity's fuck ups?"

"You won't have to care. Not unless you let us clean up her mess, and get her off your station before it's too late."

Aria narrowed her eyes in contemplation. Obviously, she knew something, but resiliently groped for the information we had. "Too late to stop a slave trade?"

"Slavery isn't the half of it." I muttered, folding my arms across my chest.

For the first time, Aria turned her penetrating stare on me, and I matched it. Sizing me up, her voice was still amused. "It's not?"

"No, it isn't." I answered firmly.

"Interesting." Aria grasped her chin, and wandered back to the ledge to overlook the dance floor.

Petrovsky added, "Her name is Anya Nagano. If you have any information on her, that would be helpful."

"There's a docking slip booked in her name for the Blue Suns' until tomorrow morning. Bay J52. I'm not a fan of having my mercenaries operate out of my jurisdiction. So, I'll tell you what. Fix that problem for me, and you'll be free to remove your friend and whatever else she's brought here. Oddly enough, a hegemony merchant vessel is registered to come in at midnight, just a few slips down. I'm not inclined to believe that's a coincidence."

I figured Aria wasn't one to let anything get by her.

We spared her our thanks, and bid our farewells.

Before she dismissed us completely, however, she lounged back against her perch, and called out to me. "So, the Illusive is training- what are they called?- hell _puppies_ now? Did he have you chipped so he wouldn't lose you?"

Clearly, Aria was well read in human mythology. She certainly made a point of mocking it. Ultimately, I knew she was trying to gauge my reaction. To see if I had a short temper, or weak disposition.

I had neither. So, I pegged the Pirate Queen with a warped grin, and told her, "Just a tag and collar."

I saw the faintest hint of satisfaction in her dour expression.

Infiltrating Anya Nagano's ship proved a bit less extensive than Petrovsky and I had originally planned. At first consideration, we had thought to pilfer a pair of Blue Suns' uniforms, but when we realized the cargo bay was open from our hiding place- crates of red sand being moved to and fro- we managed to slip inside the cruiser undetected.

We headed straight for the science lab to discover precisely what she planned to exchange with the hegemony.

I've never really cared for discussing the parameters of this mission, or what I found screaming, tethered to tables, and thrashing like mangled animals aboard that nightmarish freighter. So, I'll keep it brief. **  
><strong>

They had once been human- still technically were at the time- but the chemical agent Nagano had injected had horribly disfigured them. Covered in lesions and contusions, skin peeled from the muscles, most were leprous, some convulsed and foamed at the mouth, many lay still with glazed, silver eyes. A putrid stench arose from those that were already dead, and the ones that were still alive emitted choked, strangled gurgles.

It was terrible. For a whole ten seconds- until Petrovsky told me we had the data, and that it was time to go- I could do nothing but stare in horror. How could a human being actually use their talents to the detriment of their society? How could someone create a weapon so barbaric, and sell it to an enemy that would utilize it on our helpless colonies in the Skyllian Verge- as well as the proof?

It was because she lived by no code. Not even an unorthodox version. She would have started a war, and lived happily in a prison on Kar'Shan while the Alliance skirmished with the batarians across the galaxy. But, Cerberus had swooped in, and prevented all of that.

Instead, Nagano would answer for her crimes. Petrovsky, a Cerberus Black Ops squad, and I would intercept both frigates once they were free of the Omega Station, rid them of Aria's traitorous Blue Suns, and make them disappear. We would erase all history of any research facility, and the fifty people Nagano and her mercenaries had kidnapped. I would personally apprehend the wretch, and pass her to one of our loyal personnel inside Alliance Brass. And, after she had spilt every bit of information she could, I would discreetly condone the rumors that someone in High Command had ordered her execution with the very last dosage of her own agent. But, immediately afterwards I would vomit away the memories of what Anya Nagano had done to those people.

I had made sure to get as far away from any and every other person before I indulged my childish disgust. However, when I returned to Petrovsky's side- a bit paler than before- he had studied me with a degree of compassion and sympathy that I wished he never provided.

"It'll get easier." He promised softly.

"The chemical smells." I insisted. "Secondary exposure. I'm not used to them. I haven't had the pleasure of being sprayed too often."

He nodded silently, understanding my need to believe my sudden illness was due largely in part to all of the toxins floating in my lungs that we had just spent an hour decontaminating ourselves from. After a moment of contemplation, he added, "What you need to worry about, is when sights like these stop hurting altogether."

Though, I heavily considered that statement and carried everywhere, it was not a word of advice I heeded as carefully as I could have.

Not too many years later, I all but seemed to forget how to be bothered by the suffering of others. Perhaps that was why Petrovsky and I ended our partnership the way we did. Maybe, despite my numerous successes and triumphs for Cerberus, he considered me far too cold and ruthless to admit he had ever mentored me personally. I dismissed those inept or beneath me, focused solely on my mission, terminated those that were useless and stood in my way. Petrovsky had beseeched me to understand mercy, and for awhile, I threw it in his face. And on my nineteenth birthday, we permanently parted ways with irreconcilable differences.

Looking back on my history, I will admit I was a petulant child, tired of living underneath the authority of a man that pretended to be my father. I exceeded in my career, and desired freedom to implement my methods- the ones I argued were the best and only ways to be supremely effective. And I had taken out my frustrations on Petrovsky. I should not have done that. He had been a friend, and I had squandered that relationship just like the rest.

Pushing people away has been something of a talent of mine for awhile, I suppose. And though I'm really not one to dwell on sentiment, I will admit that if I were to see him again, I would apologize. Now that I've cut ties with Cerberus- now that the Reapers are on their way here- I doubt I'll get that chance.

I would admit to him that I did eventually start waking up to the repercussions of tenaciously callous behavior. Granted, it took about fifteen years, but I had begun to warm up to the idea long before my Collector escapade.

Maybe it had started with freeing slaves from Anhur and the rising threat of the Na'hesit- a mostly batarian faction keen on enforcing slavery in 2175 before the Rebellions. Creating a modern day Underground Railroad was rewarding to say the least.

Or, maybe, my knowledge of mercy was broadened at 0300 hours on Wednesday, August 27, 2177 when I was assigned to investigate the sudden absence of a pioneer team on a freshly scouted world on the outskirts of Alliance Space. When I realized I could not atone for the slaughter I had not succeeded in ending on Akuze that fateful evening.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: **Hey, guys! Thanks so much for all your favorites, follows, and reviews. They really mean a lot and are incredibly encouraging and insightful!

Please, leave a review! Let me know your thoughts, comments, questions, or concerns. :D

_02/24/2014- _I've made some serious provisions to the next four chapters- chapters 1-5- regarding Laira's role, and adjustments to grammar. Including this one.


	6. Lazarus Years Pt1 Calm Before the Storm

**The Lazarus Years**

**Pt. 1 Calm Before the Storm**

_**2345 Hours, Tuesday, January 07, 2183 / Cartagena Station, Cartagena System, Norma Cluster, Nemean Abyss / 3 years, 4 months, 16 days Pre Reaper invasion of Earth**_

"...With hopes to bring an end to the hostilities between the batarians and the rest of the civilized galaxy." The salarian representative concluded.

Immediately, the crowd was in uproar. Many stood, shaking their fists in indignation, several vocalized their deeply rooted opinions- especially the humans in the audience.

"Batarians can't be trusted!" One protested.

"Keep them off the Citadel!" Another agreed.

The vid screen froze and shrunk in the upper left corner to dilate the news anchor presenting this incredibly controversial piece. She kept her expression placid and as unbiased as possible, but when she spoke I found myself wondering if I was detecting considerable distaste laced through her words. Many humans held a keen sense animosity towards the hegemony, even anchors on the Alliance News Network.

Not surprising.

"This was the scene that unfolded earlier this morning, after the announcement of the upcoming visit of the batarian ambassador, Jath'Amon. The first official visit to the Citadel by a Batarian in more than a decade. However, the subsequent attack this evening by batarian terrorists on the human-owned cruise liner, Arcturian Jade- reportedly saved singlehandedly by a former Alliance marine- has left many wondering if a far greater strike can be expected from these terrorists. Despite the uproar of the citizens on the Citadel, little has been done to quell these suspicions. The Council refuses to postpone Jath'Amon's visit. They seem to believe that this proposed meeting is the best hope for peace between the estranged batarians and the Systems Alliance. The summit between the Batarian Hegemony and Citadel Council is still scheduled to take place ten days from today on Friday, January 17."

The vid screen froze. It was the same report that had been recycled for hours on end. The only new detail was the fact Arcturian Jade had been boarded by batarian terrorists, but were overthrown by the ship's small security force and an anonymous former Alliance marine. Of course, I already knew everything I needed to about him: Lieutenant Jacob Taylor, member of the 2nd Frontier Division formerly stationed on Eden Prime, a part of the 232 division attacked at the scientist's camp the month earlier during the geth insurgency of the once tranquil colony. The brigade had fared well in comparison to the 212- which only had one surviving member. His track record was spotless, and he'd proven a willingness to defend others. Regardless, Jacob Taylor had decided to take a sabbatical immediately after the remaining citizens evacuated. Either to process the losses of his unit, or the way the Alliance had downplayed the incident.

More importantly, he had served under Major Derek Izunami- an avid Cerberus liaison and former acquaintance.

I glanced back at my console to find a pair of cybernetic, illuminated blue eyes shift over a vid screen of his own that was not in my view. This evening he wore another of Giuli Vorn's 2300 thread count auburn suits, and a cigarette was held in a heavily bejeweled hand. His thick peppered hair was combed neatly back in its usual pompadour, and his voice was gravelly. "Did you receive all of that, Miranda?"

The Nemean Abyss wasn't exactly known for its consistently competent communication bouys.

"Yes, sir," I confirmed as I tried to keep the sleep from my voice. I had already rubbed it from my eyes by the time I'd dragged myself from my temporary bed, and wrapped a shawl around my shoulders to intercept the vid call. "These extremists are becoming audacious. They'll succeed in their attempt assassinate the ambassador without the Citadel taking any precautions- in spite of their failed usurp of the Jade."

"We just need the evidence to put a stop to it." The Illusive Man took a drag on his cigarette before placing it into an ashtray. "Recruit this Jacob Taylor to assist looking into your leads. I'm aware that you're more than capable of handling this mission, but he may prove useful."

_As cannon fodder in case I need to kick down a few doors?_ I kept that thought private, and instead reassured my boss. "I'll see what he knows about the batarians, and their plans for the Citadel. I'm sure he'll be willing to help look into it."

"Good," He gave a satisfied nod, and paused before disconnecting. "Oh, and, Miranda. One more thing. I thought you should know that the geth have hit Feros."

For a split second, my eyebrows shot up in surprise. "When?"

"Just before midnight yesterday."

I scratched at my collabone as I deduced the implications of what this meant for Cerbrus and the colony. Feros' true purpose had been well hidden, and we had paid ExoGeni superbly to keep it that way. But someone, somewhere in the chain of influence, must have let slip the identity and abilities of Species 37. I wondered aloud, "Why would the geth be after the Thorian? It only affects organic minds."

The Illusive Man pursed his lips. "Perhaps they were ordered to destroy it."

I frowned skeptically. My mind went to the only sapient known to supposedly be capable of commandeering synthetics. The man humanity's newest and only Spectre, Lieutenant Commander Shepard had sworn to be at the heart of the massacre on Eden Prime. "Saren?"

"Saren Arterius has always been fascinated by the possibilities of indoctrinating autonomy impairment," He told me, and for a moment I almost believed I caught disdain in his voice for the rogue turian. "But, he also has a short temper. If he was denied the opportunity to further his _research_, he may have decided to dispose of it. Or, to simply clean up after himself."

It was a rare day that I doubted the Illusive Man's judgement or knowledge of the world. I trusted him almost implicitly. For every sacrifice and measure of protection he had offered my sister, and for the opportunity and confidence he placed in me. Throughout the years, I had done everything in my power to repay him. And, the Illusive Man had made me his right hand, one of his top agents through which his greatest influence was shed. It was a role that gave me purpose.

Still, it was an even rarer day that I positively inferred he was speaking from personal experience. I understood him well. Probably more than most. I garnered his motivations, recognized his goals, inferred the reasoning behind his tactics. For awhile, I even came under the notion that I knew who he was. But whoever he had been before Cerberus- the one that had offered me salvation, before his manifestation into what he became during the Reaper War, the person that I later discovered had in fact worked alongside Saren Arterius many years earlier after the First Contact War- was no longer there at the end.

"The colonists on Feros are already under the control of the Thorian. It wouldn't do Saren any good to try enslaving a population under its influence. What could he possibly be looking for? He hates humans. He would much sooner kill them than turn them into his minions." I shook my head as I vocalized my deduction on the former Spectre's interest in the plant's mind control abilities. The colonists had been a safe, control group that had been well taken care of, and reportedly they still had a sphere of autonomy. Now, though they were in grave peril, and none knew how the Thorian would react to its thralls' endangerment. Or it's own.

"Don't be so quick to dismiss the idea that he may want to learn to control humans."

"I haven't. I just doubt that's his sole reason for being in Zhu's Hope."

"As do I." He agreed.

I paused for a moment, pondering a concern of mine I had not yet vocalized to the Illusive Man. "Sir, there is one thing I don't understand...Why would the geth obey Saren? He's an _organic_, driven by flesh and blood and emotion. Unshackled synthetic intelligence would never willingly follow him. It isn't computable. There must be...something else driving them."

"I do have a theory. Perhaps Saren and his geth actually serve the same master."

I frowned. "But, who- or _what_- would be influential enough to dissuade organics _and_ synthetics that haven't been heard from in almost three-hundred years?"

The Illusive Man shifted in his chair, and glanced at me for the first time during our conversation. "Miranda, how well versed are you on the fall of the Prothean Empire?"

I suppose it wasn't a surprising question. Saren had pursued a prothean beacon on Eden Prime. But, I was still uncertain as to where all of these correlations lined up. I folded my arms across my chest. "Enough to get by."

"When you have the time, read up on the para historical supposition on Reapers."

I tilted my head to the side by a fraction of an inch. "Reapers?"

"It's incredibly unusual for such a grandiose galactic power to vanish so suddenly. Don't you think?" He coyly teased my curiosity again. "I believe you'll be very intrigued by what you find, Miranda."

"I'll look into it. Do we have anyone looking into Feros?" I asked, changing the subject, though I had a feeling I already knew the answer.

"We intercepted an Alliance transmission early this morning. Commander Shepard and his team have been tasked with securing the colony, and investigating the geth presence. They should arrive within the next twenty-eight hours."

My head bobbed thoughtfully in the affirmative motion. If there was one thing Shepard was good at- as evidenced by the sparse interview following his Spectre induction circulating the media, his dossier on his service history, and the multitude of Cerberus bases he had recently eradicated- it was digging up details, helping the helpless, and fighting for a cause. "The colonists may not fare well until then, but he'll get the job done."

The Illusive Man raised an amused eyebrow. "You have faith in him, Miranda?"

"He's an Alliance poster child. Raised on space stations, humanity's _finest_ ways of thinking have been drilled into his core since early childhood. Shepard lives and breathes Alliance doctrine. He'd probably cut off his hand if they gave him the order." I said harshly. "But for now, yes. He's effective enough for me to come to the conclusion that he's far more intelligent than the average marine. There's no doubting his abilities...and humanity admires him."

Clearly, I hadn't been enamored with Commander Shepard like so many others- even several Cerberus members I had thought of as scholarly. This was a bias I'd formed of anyone that left authority unquestioned. Granted, it was not fair. And, at that point in history, my impression of Shepard was that of an unacquainted, unconvinced bystander. I would be in for quite the shock when we did finally make each other's acquaintance.

"They certainly do." The Illusive Man consented before wishing me luck, and sending me on my way.

I rubbed beneath my eyes again, and stifled a yawn. I had one final task to complete before hauling myself back beneath my covers to collect the few hours of sleep I could afford.

The voice on the other end of the secured, vocal line answered after only four rings. He cleared his throat groggily. "Major Derek Izunami speaking."

"Hello Major, this is Miranda Lawson."

"Miss Lawson! To what do I owe the pleasure...at this ungodly hour?" His chipper voice grew exasperated.

"I apologize for the intrusion. But, I've got information that there might be an attack on the Citadel, timed to coincide with Ambassador Jath'Amon's visit. You'll be interested in hearing out my request."

**_1600 Hours, Friday, January 10, 2183 / Fringe Bar, Cartagena Station, Cartagena System, Norma Cluster, Nemean Abyss / 3 years, 4 months, 13 days Pre Reaper invasion of Earth_**

Throughout all of my nineteen years, two months, and ten days with Cerberus; I travelled the galaxy many times over, obtained a dexterity for a multitude of professions and skills, became acquainted with a menagerie of individuals, and in the beginning- I wore a plethora of masks.

There was Johanna Ericsson, an heiress. Daughter to an influential businessman that had broken from her father's influence to start a career and earn her own keep of the luxury sports car and penthouse flat on Illium as she tired away as Inez Simmons personal assistant. A hard-worker with management skills and a trustworthy disposition, Ericsson was the last person Miss Simmons expected to peer too closely into her expenses and uncover the kickback scandal that gave leeway to her removal from her position as political party leader for Terra Firma.

There was Mia Walker, a pharmaceutical tech that had been hired by the public face of New Dawn Pharmaceuticals. Good with numbers and chemistry, Walker had been assigned by one branch to concoct substances that were not aligned with neither the public's, nor Cerberus' needs, in exchange for under the table payments. They hadn't expected her to be unappreciative of laundered income and report her findings to the Illusive Man.

There had been Alena Becker- Eclipse initiate.

Mira Vaughn. Andi Dawson. Both analogues.

But, much of the time- especially after I'd created such an intricate web of contacts that made providing an alias needless- I was Miranda Lawson. It was simpler- in areas I was known- to not go by an identity thought up at the drop of a hat. And even in the outlaw-filled Nemean Abyss, I was recognizable by a few as the focused, severe Cerberus operative.

Of course, that day on Cartagena Station, there was only one person I anticipated to identify me in any capacity. Jacob Taylor had never seen my face, yet I had seen his on more than one occasion over the past few days. Apart from hiring a corsair, there was no need to show my face. By all accounts, Cartagena's crime ratio had been fairly low recently. At least, as far as the hostile takeovers went.

Which only meant the station's luck was running out.

I had arrived at The Fringe ten minutes before our designated meet time. I slyly slunk into a barstool in the corner of the bottom floor, ordered a glass of an asari wine, and turned my attention to the datapad in the palm of my hand to appear occupied and dissuade others from approaching me. There were no further updates in the news regarding Jath'Amon's visit to the Citadel, but the media had publicized geth sightings on Feros. Withheld were the reports of an actual attack, however.

I sipped steadily on the glass of the fermented, alien variation. The sweetness that washed over my tongue was akin to a plum, coupled with the faint dryness that was present in all alcoholic beverages. I was thankful there were no traces of apple. Generally speaking, asari had taken quite a liking to human fruits, and had engineered their own versions. Most popular on their list were Golden Thessian apples.

I hummed to myself in disappointment over the lack of intriguing articles currently circulating the extranet when a large, armored hand settled on the counter just to my right. My eyes flickered upwards to peer out beneath loose strands of onyx hair to find a large, grizzly fellow looming over the counter.

"Pardon my reach, lass," He apologized as he grasped for the drinks the bartender had prepared.

"Not a problem." I reassured him passively as I made a point of glancing upwards to inspect the intruder. The moment I caught sight of the cybernetic replacement swirling in his right eye socket, I knew exactly who he was. His face had been plastered on warrants all across the station.

Clint 'Black-Eye' Darragh flashed a bright smile at me before turning on his heel, and heading up the stairs to the second floor where the rest of his motley crew awaited his return.

The fact that a notorious pirate band had infiltrated the station did not perturb me. I'd dealt with far worse than a ragtag group of criminals in the Nemean Abyss. However, I found their sudden innocuous appearance irrevocably annoying. If the pirates found themselves in a squabble with C-Pat- the station's police force- the Fringe would either be taken hostage, or evacuated. I would have to lurk elsewhere in search of Jacob Taylor, and I did not wish to waste my time because of an inconsequential power struggle.

_At least they haven't started anything_.

Coincidentally in the sane moment, gunfire erupted from just outside the bar. I rolled my eyes and pinched the bridge of my nose as I anticipated the following string of events. A shot rang up in the air to absorb the attention of fellow patrons. A few screams of surprise bounced off the walls and pillars, but ultimately, most of the expressions on the sea of faces from every species- apart from the traces of fear- were those of acceptance and boredom. Like the citizens of Cartagena had expected to find themselves at the heart of raid any day now. The music died, and a wave of silence overcame the crowd. Out of the corner of my eye, I could the bartender subtly reach beneath the counter to press an emergency call button.

"No one leaves!" Darragh shouted to the patrons on his second-story level. "This is a holdup. Any of ya' try anything funny, you'll be put down. Understand?"

As the old pirate's crew encircled the group of customers on the top floor, many of the people on the bottom floor took their cue to scurry away before the situation could worsen. Others- either brave, stupid, or with a job to do- like myself, remained seated and chattering, otherwise ignoring the hostage situation upstairs as a jazzy tune returned to the loud speakers. Tensions were still high with the random intervals of gunfire slowly approaching, but after fifteen minutes, both patrons and pirates seemed to find a rhythm of minding their own business.

When The Fringe's doors were finally flung open to the rat-a-tat of artillery and clanking heavy boots, many like myself had expected C-Pat. Instead, we intercepted a sole figure in unmarked armor. An assault rifle was held firmly in his grasp, and a faint blue glow around his shoulders indicated that his biotics were cooling down. With a clean-shaven head and aggressive stance, it was clear that this day was not his first in combat. He threw a steady glare at the pirate stepping up to the top of the stairs as he careened to halt, weighing his options. Anticipating potential trouble for him, I clenched my fist, prepared to unleash my biotics if fate should have it.

_Ah, well, there's my contact._

"Come no closer, young man, or I'll fill you full of holes." Black-Eye threatened. He leveled the barrel of his gun at the newcomer. From the balcony beside his loyal men remained fixed on their vigilance around the hostages.

"Who the hell do you think you are?" Jacob struggled to keep the irritation out of his voice.

"The name's Black-Eye. 'Black-Eye' Darragh," He claimed proudly, pounding his chest in a show of bravado. "You may have heard of me."

Jacob gestured disdainfully to the captives behind the mad pirate. "Why hold these people hostage?"

"Because they were here when the patrol officers outside started shooting," Darragh answered honestly. "Why else?"

Jacob quirked an eyebrow. "Don't you have demands?"

_I really don't have time for this, _I harrumphed in silence fully prepared to order myself another drink, or step up to the plate in case Jacob actually needed my help.

"Demands?" Darragh gawked as though Mr. Taylor had just told him he could survive the vacuum of space without respiratory equipment, lowering his gun in the process. "You think I'm stupid enough to invade Cartagena Station, then issue demands? We're not here to make demands. Just to get a cold drink and a bit of a breather."

"You didn't come here to just have drinks." Taylor decided after giving Darragh a thorough once over.

A mixture of surprise and confusion etched its way across the old pirate's face. "I didn't? And why is that?"

"Cartagena's too well defended. You knew you'd be caught if you came here."

Darragh laughed. "Hah! So what, I wanted to be caught? That what you're sayin'?"

The marine shrugged. "That's what I'm saying."

Grumbling under his breath, Clint Durragh flicked his fingers downwards in a signal for his men to lower their weapons. "Aw, damnit. I think you're right. I'm just so bloody tired. I'm getting too old for this shit."

"Turn yourself in, Darragh," Jacob insisted as C-Pat officers stormed through the door.

"I swear, I hate you Alliance crewcuts. You throw everything off balance." He swore before reeling on the police. "Alright. Take me into custody, you C-Pat wing nuts! This is the day you threw Black-Eye Darragh in jail!"

Two C-Pat officers clawed for Darragh's arms, and placed him in omni-shackles. Steaming angry, Darragh was dragged away like animal as Jacob Taylor stood watch. One of the officers shook his hand in gratitude before he turned to survey the room, searching for his contact.

I will admit, I was impressed and slightly sympathetic for the man hauled away to end a life of crime. _I suppose we all get what we deserve._

When Jacob finally caught my eyes steadily upon him, I took a sip of wine and explained, "I thought you'd be taller."

* * *

><p><strong>AN: **Hello, guys! Sorry for the slight delay with this one. I'll bust out the next by the end of this week hopefully! Thanks so much for you follows, favorites, and reviews! They mean a lot, and they're very encouraging. So, please keep 'em coming.

Update: _02/24/2014- _I've made some serious provisions to the next four chapters- chapters 1-5- regarding Laira's role, and adjustments to grammar.


	7. Lazarus Years Pt2 Degrees of Trust

**Pt. 2 Degrees of Trust**

_**1120 Hours, Tuesday, January 14, 2183 / En Route to Tortuga, Hispaniola System, Santa Maria Cluster, Nemean Abyss / 3 years, 4 months, 9 days Pre Reaper invasion of Earth**_

"Have you got anything new for us, Batha?" Was my immediate question upon entry to the med deck on the small corvette Cerberus had deployed to fly myself, and my assets wherever we needed to go.

"Rrgh," Came the guttural growl of a daunting, ever-vigilant krogan in the corner of the compartment. His orange eyes narrowed threateningly beneath his grizzled head plate at the sight of me approaching his lifelong asari companion.

Despite the fact that not two days before, Jacob and I had saved their lives by offering extraction and refuge from what had become an experimental batarian prison, the krogan mercenary had proven slow to trust- not that I blamed him. However, his personal investment in his role as the asari doctor's guard- on top of the budding stereotypes of his species' behavior- made me weary of the probability that he could prove to be a liability to our mission. Batha was the sole individual capable of settling his outwardly aggressive nature. Thankfully, she seemed to have faith in her rescuers.

"Hush, Nax," She cooed with a smile that put the krogan at perfect ease.

Jacob Taylor had merely been the first of several recruits I had picked up for this particular mission.

We had run into Doctor Batha and her irritable friend Nax in the middle of his own rescue attempt on Ahn'Kedar Orbital Platform. Ahn'Kedar had been the first of three leads I had chosen to investigate.

Several doctors and scientists had gone missing from stations near the Batarian Fringe. I couldn't imagine it was a mere coincidence, and my instincts had yet again been proven correct upon arrival.

Batarians in the Outer Rim had supposedly fallen tragically ill to a new, unknown super bug. Entire populations had been exterminated. Only communicable in high concentrations, it could incubate quickly and thus far had a 100% mortality rate. In an effort to devise a cure for what could only be a biological weapon, they had kidnapped a multitude of brilliant minds to devise a cure. And many, like Batha, had chosen to stay in an act of good conscience. Their efforts were not entirely in vain.

"The prototype cure has nearly been synthesized," She explained, flicking through her notes. Her soft, sea foam tinged features were drawn, and purplish circles lined the rims of her eyes. The news that the batarians in favor of separatism would likely use the blood plague to assassinate Jath'Amon and his entourage had made her anxious to draw a conclusion. "But, I'll need a large store of element zero to complete it. There weren't any leftover caches at the lab on Ahn'Kedar, and your mass effect drive doesn't exactly have any to spare. We'll need to find some soon."

"What do we need element zero for?"

I turned to see Jacob trudging down the stairs into the med bay with a cup of coffee in his hands. Wiggling his way around equipment, he placed it before Batha who gave him a gracious smile. Which, I found surprising considering I had never encountered an asari with a preference for coffee over tea. She must have been running on empty.

"Element zero is at the heart of many advances in medicines. In this case, it has a mutagenic effect that Miranda and I think-" She shook her head to dispel the urge of delving too deep into the more scientifically complex hypothesis we had mulled over for nearly two hours yesterday. "Well, it's not important right now. My work will cure this blood plague, though. That's what matters."

"I've got a lead on Bekke," I informed my accomplices, placing a hand under my chin. All of my leads had been in the Nemean Abyss. It turned out the batarians were busy out there: gunrunning, drugs, terrorizing human colonies...the works. "The batarians have been gathering forces there. All to protect something. Maybe it's eezo?"

"Sounds right," Nax grunted.

Intrigued by his voluntary agreement, I raised an imploring brow. "Oh?"

He shrugged gruffly, "Knew a couple batarian mercs that got hired by some businessmen from Bekke a couple months ago. Never said what they paying them to guard exactly. Only that it was big, and secret, and had something to do with one of the new mines. Batarians are all tight-lipped. Think that they're the first, and only ones to get their hands on something."

"Could be worth a look," Taylor nodded.

"As soon as we've taken a look at this arms dealer, we'll head straight there." I decided.

"Sounds like a plan," Jacob nodded, lending me a smile I did not return.

Instead, I glanced at Nax suspiciously. Leaving a krogan mercenary aboard a company ship without proper supervision did not sit well with me. Why should I abandon him long enough to be marooned planet side? Although I doubted Batha would allow it, Nax was highly protective of her and much larger. The giant reptile could certainly subdue his partner, and make a run from the people that were offering to pay him. If I were to force him to accompany us, he would accuse me of purposefully leaving Batha in harms way, alone and with only the five-person crew to keep an eye on the ship's safety.

Neither was preferable. So, I gave him a job to put his skills to use. "Mr. Taylor and I will head ashore once we reach Tortuga. We should only be gone a few hours. Nax, I want you to stationed as security while we're gone. Keep pirates away from Batha and the ship. We'll keep in radio contact."

"I wasn't gonna go anywhere anyways," He grunted.

Drawing my lips into a thin line, I nodded in approval, turned on my heel, and excused myself. The gangways of the corvette were cramped and the bulkheads provided narrow pathways that echoed the tiniest of movements. I didn't have to turn around to know I was being tailed on my way to the cockpit to check our status and alert the pilot of the krogan she would need to babysit. Jacob's footsteps were heavy and thunderous. The typical sign of a marine without expertise in stealth operations, unacquainted with the need for discretion.

As I passed the minute kitchenette and captain's cabin, Jacob finally caught up with me. "Lawson, wait up!"

My pace slowed, but I made no effort to pause and wait for his dallying pace. He fell in perfect step just behind me, and cleared his throat as though making an attempt to start a conversation. "About Nax."

I stiffened. "What about him?"

"I think you can trust him to do what he says."

Stealing a quick breath, I let the terseness slip from my features. Flashing him a quick smile over me shoulder, I asked, "What makes you think I don't trust him?"

"You said he could complicate things for us," He reminded me as though I'd forgotten our first meeting with the krogan.

"Sure. Back on Ahn'Kedar when we were in the middle of a gunfight," I said with amused, innocent eyes. "Now, we're on Tortuga. He'll be useful. I like to think up any possibility."

Jacob nodded solemnly. "Well, I trust you. So whatever you say goes, Miranda."

Overall, he had taken my direction superbly. His faith in me had been quickly won, and with surprising ease. One of his first questions for me had been whether or not I was a spy. But once I'd given a noncommittal reassurance that he could ask questions _after_ the batarians were dealt with, he had become much simpler to manage as he put his duty first. However, despite the aura of the quiet, unquestioning, perfect soldier-boy swarming around his armored body; I was slightly inclined to believe he initially trusted me so quickly because of the fact that I was a pair of big, blue eyes with a passion for doing the right thing.

My employer was still a mystery to him. The Alliance had recently bastardized a few of our black ops cells for performing illegal experiments in Council space, and labeled our entire organization terrorists. The Illusive Man and I had agreed it best to let Mr. Taylor understand our ambitions before the media's bias could affect his opinion.

When I granted him a warm grin, he rubbed the back of his neck. "So, Tortuga? What can you tell me about it?"

"Never had the pleasure?"

_**1000 Hours, **Saturday, July 4, 2167** / Cerberus Experimental Training Facility "The Farm", Nos Astra, Illium, Tasale System, Crescent Nebula, Terminus Systems / 18 years, 10 months, 19 days Pre Reaper Invasion of Earth**_

The Farm.

Nicknamed for it's ability to discharge a very specific breed of operative, and inarguably the most impressive underground facility I would ever see, none but Cerberus' best that resided on the upper border of Council Space were sent to train for their careers. There were no more than ten future agents under careful tutelage at any given time. Each student's course was individualized, personalized, confidential, and dictated by our personal mentor. We knew each other's names and faces, and were only brought together for certain activities: charm school, scholastic classes, physical fitness, and downtime.

My aptitude in death-defying car chases- where I terrified Petrovsky on more than one occasion- interrogations, withstanding torture techniques, sparring, infiltration, observations, and strategy were all honed by my teacher's diligence, patience, and good faith. And as seriously as we both took our assignments, Petrovsky was always able to put me at ease after a day of rigorous mock torture trials, lift my spirits when I was hard on myself for imperfect marks in my courses, or make me laugh when I took things too seriously. Even when I had yet to realize I was in desperate need of appraisal.

"You're overthinking it, Miranda," My guardian whispered kindly, snagging the datapad I'd had my eyes glued to all morning out from under me and replacing it with a steaming mug of tea. He smirked when he realized I was still glowering from the barstool in the upmost floor's breakroom. "Unshackle yourself, and take a break."

"Thanks," I grumbled begrudgingly as I worked through hacking the final node on the omni-cuffs. Four seconds later they sizzled out of existence, and I rubbed my sore wrists.

Petrovsky took hold of my sleeveless forearm and tsked. "I didn't think it was possible with the omni-cuffs, but your multitasking is going to rub your skin raw."

I grinned cheekily as I accepted the medi-gel ointment he'd offered. "At least I've stopped breaking my thumbs."

He cringed, clearly recalling the distinct popping noise a small bone in my hand had made the fourth time I had attempted to remove a pair of metal handcuffs. As unorthodox as my method had been, it had worked, and I was still functional. Oleg tapped my nose in good humor, "You, my dear, have the pain tolerance of a krogan."

"And the redundant nervous system to match," I agreed, savoring the taste of proper tea Oleg had procured for me. Just the right amount of cream and sugar. Not too bitter, not too sweet.

When I reached for the datapad, Oleg hid it behind his back. "Like I said, you're overthinking it. You're more than prepared for your exams. Give your mind a rest."

I frowned. "I can't. Not today. Just let me give myself a stroke, and I'll take a break when I'm dead."

_Just not today._

Petrovsky let out a long, sad sigh. One that I now knew to be genuine. "Miranda, do you trust me?"

"Of course."

"How much?"

"With my life," I answered honestly.

"Then, today, don't pretend it's not your sister's birthday." That was exactly what I didn't want to hear. "Be angry if you want. Cry in your room for an hour. Be a little reckless. But, do _not _bog yourself down with work."

I opened my mouth to argue, a seething glare sealing itself into my features. But, Petrovsky was prepared. "Before you say anything about work being a productive coping strategy, know that I'm disagreeing with you. I want you to actually enjoy the challenges I give you. Not use them as a means of distraction. That's an order."

The breath leaving my nostrils was incredibly long. My fingers and toes twitched in irritation, and I could feel the heat draining from my face as I masked my frustration. "Fine, but what am I supposed to do for the next fourteen hours?"

He smiled in success, "Well, I've got a meeting with the Illusive Man."

"About what?" I asked at once.

"I'll tell you once I know," He promised. "But, you're a teenager, and Nos Astra is a big city. Go have fun, don't do anything stupid, and I'll give you credits for lunch. Make friends."

I gave him half of a smile. "I don't have friends. Friends are liabilities."

Petrovsky rolled his eyes, though he knew it to be true. Trusting too many people came with certain sacrifices. Regardless, my mentor practically shoved me out of the break room with a reminder that he'd better not find me sulking in my room later in the day. Huffing and folding my arms across my chest, I watched him skulk away and wandered aimlessly in my own direction.

I had desperately attempted to avoid any reminders that today was in fact Oriana's birthday. I even told myself that it didn't bother me. She was safe and happy with a family that loved her, and her first birthday would be a lovely affair. But, I couldn't help wondering how much she had aged. If she was speaking. _Probably._ Toddling and able to give others an earful. I found myself wondering what her voice was like. How she would speak to me.

I was so lost in thought that I nearly collided face first into the lanky frame of an old acquaintance.

He made no move to give return my personal space, so I was forced to subtly retreat a few steps backwards to fully glare up into dark, amused eyes.

"Got your head in the clouds, Lawson?" He teased.

"Got a map?" I retorted. "Because I'm pretty sure you're not supposed to be here today."

Lieutenant Lentz held up his hands defensively. "Hey, I know where I'm supposed to be. I just thought I'd pop in for a visit before I went to go look after your-"

Gruffly clearing my throat, I pegged Lentz with a hostile glare that dissuaded him from finishing that sentence.

Nodding in understanding, the operative smiled charmingly and glanced around the fairly empty corridor. Lowering his voice, he offered, "Look, I just wanted to see if you'd like to take the day off? Go see something kind of cool?"

I narrowed my eyes suspiciously. "Like what?"

"It's a surprise," He whispered mischievously.

"I'm not a big surprise person."

Lentz turned on his heel, and motioned for me to follow him outside. "Aw, well. You'll just have to trust me when I say it's a good one. Come on, Miranda."

_**1300 Hours, Tuesday, January 14, 2183 / Tortuga, Hispaniola System, Santa Maria Cluster, Nemean Abyss / 3 years, 4 months, 14 days Pre Reaper invasion of Earth**_

"So this is Tortuga?" Jacob scrunched up his nose with sheer dissatisfaction. "Lovely place."

"It's not all that bad, really." I mused, shading my eyes from the harsh glare of the sun smoldering its way through the hazy taupe atmosphere.

Like any remote civilization on the fringe of the Nemean Abyss, Tortuga was well accustomed to piracy. Of course, seeing as the grand majority of the planet's residents were in fact nomadic scalawags longing for a free port without trade tariffs, and the location was outside of the jurisdiction of any particular race, Tortuga was not warred over by rival clans. Even pirates wanted to have free reign over their own homes.

Jacob grimaced at me as though I'd suddenly grown another head.

Placing my hand on my hip, I shot him a disbelieving stare. "Well, I wouldn't buy a summer home."

Hell would have frozen over before I even allowed myself the consideration. Crime rates were exorbitant, so it wasn't particularly safe. The ambiance was severely lacking in sophistication, and- _Oh, there's a turian with his hand around the throat of a volus._- Tortuga was wild and uncivilized, but in the grand scheme of the wicked ways of the universe there were far worse places.

Like Anhur.

Jacob and I trudged at an even pace down the cluttered docking ramp, and away from the corsair ship I had hired to fly us- and anything we picked up- to and from our leads. In contrast to the ease of poise and inconspicuous nature I had mastered, the marine kept a tight hold on his shotgun and a weary eye on his surroundings. Every few seconds he would bristle as another daunting character lurked past, unwittingly attracting onlookers.

"Put your gun down," I muttered under my breath, my eyes strained ahead, sweeping the area for immediate danger.

With a sharp expression, Jacob sneered at me with ground teeth. "This place is a firefight just waiting to happen."

"And you're asking for a reason to start one." Subtly gesturing between the small cluster of turians throwing us greedy eyes from a cargo slip and the assault rifle in my partner's grasp, I whipped up a patronizing smile. "Put your gun away."

Huffing an uncertain sigh, Jacob did as he was told and slung the shotgun over his shoulder as we rounded a corner into a marketplace in pursuit of our informant. Tucked into a pocket of boulevards just a few hundred yards from the port, merchants chattered back and forth. Some waved beads and garments at potential customers, others howled orders to the dockworkers unloading goods into the warehouses they were backed up against. Several different genres of music blared from apartments and bars. Brawlers stumbled out of saloons, and others were evicted by bouncers.

"You stick out like a sore thumb in that armor." A shifty-looking salarian I'd been keeping an eye on stepped out from the shadows at the edge of an alleyway.

"Told him that myself, actually." I consented, crossing my arms over my chest. I gave the crowd we were detached from a once over, and noted that only turians and krogans were dressed in full armor. Batarians and humans tended to wear chestplates and carry sidearms. They certainly were not adorned in the white and navy blue of an Alliance marine.

Resisting the urge to roll my eyes as Jacob leveled his weapon at the slimy amphibian was impossible. Especially when he barked, "Who the hell are you?"

_At least he's on guard._

The salarian's hand shot straight into the air. Good to know he hadn't changed. Still a coward in all his might. His nervous eyes flickered between myself, and the barrel of Jacob's gun. "Call me Ish. I'm a friend of Miranda's."

Taylor looked to me for clarification.

"Something like that," I shrugged. Friendship was not exactly how I would have described our relationship. Amiable? Of course. Ill will intended? None. Mutual trust? Absolutely not. I flashed a smile, "Good to see you again, Ish. This is Jacob Taylor. What do you have for us?"

"Is it time for Nazario to pay his dues?" The salarian countered with a gleam in his large oval eyes. Something told me that Ish most certainly hoped so.

"We just have some questions for him." Jacob corrected.

"Is that human-speak for 'pump him full of lead'?" Keenly interested, there was no disguising the fact that Ish strongly desired to hear Nazario's eulogy played over local news.

"Always a possibility, but hopefully it won't come to that," I disagreed with a clipped tone.

"Trust me, Miranda." I nearly snorted in disbelief with the salarian's plea. I trusted Ish no further than I could throw him- without biotics that was. There were times his deals were shoddy at best, but the slimy little amphibian was a fountain of information, and I could almost admire his greedy, unattached entrepreneurial spirit. Even still, seven feet was too long of a leash. "I'm...well acquainted with Illo Nazario. No matter how hard you try, someone is going to wind up shot."

Jacob's sullen expression became even more pronounced. "I can't imagine anyone that lives here is an all around good guy."

"Nazario has a habit of running weapons from here to the Batarian Fringe. He's been working with them for years. It's easy clientele- so long as Nazario doesn't accidentally send a human to deliver his goods. That could cost him an employee, and more importantly- a sale."

"Does he do that a lot?" Jacob inquired, clearly disturbed by the prospect of a few of our own race winding up in the dutiful hands of a sworn enemy. I found myself wondering if Jacob had ever actually witnessed the horror Hegemony was capable of inflicting on others as well as their own- like I had on Anhur.

"Send humans into Batarian Space?" Ish quirked his large teal-streaked head to the side. "No, not usually. Unless he's got a very naive volunteer, or a real problem with him. Illo is a businessman, and he's well aware of what would happen if his supplies were shipped in by the wrong the person. Nazario has a client list as long as my arm and enough thugs to take on an army. So, some of his men are expendable."

"What usually happens to the humans he deploys?" Jacob grimaced.

"You haven't come across many batarians, have you?"

"The ones I've run into have had a habit of shooting at me." It took him a moment to realize he had answered his own question.

I cleared my throat, "While I appreciate trivia I'm already in the possession of, I'm not paying you to withhold information from me, Ish. Or security access cards."

"Right." He coughed into his three-fingered palm, and straightened himself. "Rumor has it he hasn't cut any deals in the last couple of weeks. Some folks think he's planning something big."

"Such as?" I implored.

Ish frowned. "You'd have to ask him that yourself. Of course, you might not be able to. Others think he might be dead."

"Explain." I demanded.

"As far as anyone knows, Nazario has been holed up in the center of his compound for the past couple of weeks. No has seen him leave. It's just east by a few blocks. I'll give you the navpoint."

"Then we'd better get in there now," Mr. Taylor decided.

"Agreed."

"I've got the codes for the back door, Miranda. That's how you'll want to get inside. The guards have been monitoring the front perimeter to scare people off. Some batarian pirates just moved in, and they've made everyone a little weary."

Something told me those batarians had been bad for business.

Ish chirped after I pilfered a few credits into his account. "The codes change every three hours, so act fast. Lovely working with you again, Miranda. And it was nice knowing you, Mister Taylor."

Not ten minutes later, Jacob and I had infiltrated the rear entrance to the rather large compound through the smallest of five conjoined warehouses. With a pleased smirk, I drew my gun and whispered, "Ah, Ish. So useless and useful at the same time."

"You sure have some interesting friends."

"You don't know the half of it." I told him before checking the thermal friendly-foe scanner on my omni-tool. "Scanners show a lot of unfriendly blips further inside, Jacob. Ish wasn't kidding about Illo having a lot of thugs. We'll need to be careful."

As diligent as we were, we still wound up stockpiled with a barrage of turian guards. Unfortunately, the noise of that particular gunfight led us to be ambushed by the very same batarian pirates that Ish had shown no particular fondness for.

"Ish set us up!" Jacob growled as he dove for cover behind a rail of shipments.

I was instinctively defensive of my contact as I fired two shots into the foreheads of two pirates with my Predator. "It's not like Ish to…Oh, what am I saying? This is definitely something he would do."

"Do you have a habit of friends stabbing you in the back?" Jacob's face contorted in anger as he narrowly avoided being struck with a plethora of enemy fire.

Detonating Jacob's pull with a vicious warp field, I ripped apart three enemies that had wandered too close. "I don't expect Ish to meet a happy end. His track record isn't the best."

"But we trusted him anyways?"

"Not completely."

As we advanced through the hallways, we were confronted by a smug batarian, five of his men, and their guns. We held our ground, biotics flaring on our shoulders as he tilted his head back and laughed. "I wondered what kind of warped souls could leave me all these turian corpses. Figures it would be a pair of filthy _humans_. You lot really do despise them as much as you hate us. What's it like to have so many enemies?"

"What's it like to be an isolationist?" I spat back.

"_Rrgh_. If it weren't for your people, we wouldn't have had to leave Citadel space."

"That's unlikely." I motioned to the guns in their arms. "So, you here to assassinate the arms dealer?"

"Nazario?" He laughed, shaking his head. "Nah, we're just here to remind him who he's dealing with."

"I take it you've worked with Illo in the past?" Jacob asked.

"We're not here to discuss business with you, humans," The pirate spat, his visor hostilely narrowing in to focus on us. "Out of the way, or you're just another pair of corpses on the pile. I've got no qualms killing a couple of your kind."

_I'm sure you don't._

"We've had a bad day. I'd recommend stepping out of the way. After all, we created that pile," I reminded him, lethally flaring my blue corona.

The batarian visually cringed at the sight. Biotics were something of a rarity amongst his people, and he certainly hadn't expected to run into two humans with the rare control over element zero. He stuttered, "Uh, yeah. We don't want any trouble. Sounds like you're here to do our job for us anyways. Turn back, men, let's leave these humans."

We kept our guns trained on their backs during their entire retreat before we reeled on the red-lit lock they had been attempting to hack just before our arrival. I frowned when I saw the results on my combat scanner. "There's at least four turians behind the door. Well armed, and expecting us. If we can get past them, we'll know exactly what's happened to Nazario."

Jacob hugged his shotgun to his chest as he took cover on the left side of the door. I was only on point long enough to hack through the lock. The moment the light flickered from crimson to ivy, I slammed my fist against it. When the doors parted, I raised a glowing fist, and Jacob dove to my side, aiming his own weapon at three turian guards.

No shots were fired.

All that came was a frail, doubly harmonic voice from the cot just behind the thugs. "Please, no shooting. No more fighting. We're no threat to you humans."

"Illo Nazario?" I asked, approaching the bedside cautiously as his men lowered their weapons and stepped aside.

"That's me," He coughed into his talons. Unlike most turians, he was bare-faced. World-less, or a spacer. They were not trusted amongst his people, and I saw no reason to completely disregard that aspect of such an alien culture. The rims beneath his eyes were uncharacteristically purple, and the sheet white appearance of his carapace was a dead giveaway to the lack of oxygen in his blood. Illo Nazario was ill.

"You look like you're on your deathbed." I murmured, looking to see if Jacob was drawing any conclusions.

"I am," Nazario barked, this time spitting up a trace of blue blood into the palm of his hand.

"Does this have anything to do with those batarians outside?" Jacob wondered.

"Batarians?" Nazario echoed. It was becoming more and more obvious that he was slipping. "I haven't had any business with them…Not since…Not since they did this to me."

My eyes grew wide in realization. "They did this to you?"

He nodded and attempted to sit up on his makeshift cot. With a shaky hand, he clawed for the glass of water on the nightstand. One of his personnel immediately groped for it, and offered it to him carefully. "I didn't think it was anything to be worried about…Especially not for humans. I ended our business relationship the minute I realized…"

"Realized what?" I demanded as he entered another coughing fit.

I did my best to keep my voice level, but the implications behind Nazario's illness were severely disconcerting. If both turians and batarians could be infected by this biological weapon, then it was exactly as Batha and I had hypothesized.

Mutagenic. Capable of attacking every race on the Citadel. Which meant these pirates were aiming to exterminate more than just Ambassador Jath'Amon. More than just the rumors. More than batarians planning to attack the Citadel on the day of Jath'Amon's visit. More than simply disrupting the peace talks.

They were aiming to take out every species on the station. Every ambassador and councilor in the meeting. The Council and humanity's Alliance were in peril.

Our problem had just become astronomical in proportion.


	8. Lazarus Years Pt3 Growing Pains

**A/N: **Hello everyone! Thank you for al your lovely support. Your favorites, follows, and reviews mean a ton! Enjoy, and please review! :D

* * *

><p><strong>Pt. 3 Growing Pains<strong>

_**2330 Hours, Thursday, January 15, 2183 / Batarian Mining Facility, Bekke, Fuglesang, Scandza Cluster, Nemean Abyss / 3 years, 4 months, 8 days Pre Reaper invasion of Earth**_

"Ugghh!" I rotated on my heel to the sound of irrevocable pain- somewhat sluggishly from an onslaught of fatigue. Nearly loosing hold of his gun, Taylor dropped to his knees and wrapped his arms around his middle. His typical, rich chocolate complexion had blanched remarkably, and his hands trembled more than mine.

"Jacob!" I gasped with a genuine layer of concern.

The lack of oxygen my lungs would absorb made the will to speak nearly unbearable. Waves of nausea eroded in tidal waves as I kneeled beside him, and pressed the rear of my hand to his forehead- only to forget why I had done so in the first place. Instead, I dug my fingertips into the cool soil, admiring the way it evaporated the heat of my dry, dehydrated skin. _The ground. The ground is nice._

"What's happening to me?" Jacob groaned, yanking me back into the waking world as I began to experience the full brunt of this sudden illness we had contracted inside the caverns.

_Focus._

With his arm draped over my shoulders, I picked my head up and glanced around. Every movement was agonizing. A migraine blurred our surroundings. If batarians were to ambush us in that moment as they had on our previous stop, there would have been severe circumstances. While my biotics had continuously maximized the further into the mine we waded, I was certain that my implant would fry my neural network if I so much as telekinetically lifted a pencil.

"This must be it." I decided, whilst suppressing the urge to vomit. The progress of our ailment had been subtle. It had not deterred us until our last scrapple with the pirates buzzing around the hoard. And now, it was slowly poisoning us. All of these sensations were too familiar to ignore. "The element zero stockpile must be nearby."

"Why…Why is it not affecting you?" He wondered aloud. Envy and bewilderment flashed across his features.

"It is. I've just had experience with this sort of thing."I answered honestly as I tried to regain my footing to no avail. There was no way I would be capable of hauling Jacob to his feet on my own. _I just need to take a nap first. _

_No, no. Move._

And I did, just a bit further. "Believe me…I feel like I need to be in a hospital bed…But we have to grab what Batha needs and get out of here. Just hold on. Okay?"

I retain no memory of calling in our evacuation. Just as I have no recollection of departing the facility. The first occurrence that could come to mind after deciding to carry our mission through was opening my eyes to the sensation of rain on a downpour. Sheets of water matted my raven hair and black combat suit. To say the sensation was refreshing would be an understatement. I remember strength returning to my legs- which operated sluggishly as I leaned heavily against a bulky biped for support.

"Nax?" I wondered aloud, my shout muted by the rain. My dry mouth drowned by the rush of ambrosia. Blinking away the bleariness, I discovered Jacob slung unconscious over the krogan's shoulder- along with a rucksack of crystalized eezo.

The krogan's shotgun went off twice, aimed at an enemy beyond immediate sight. He grumbled, "What?"

"Let go," I said as I shakily tugged my forearm from his three-fingered grasp. "Let me walk by myself."

"Suit yourself." Nax grunted. The hulking reptile released his grip on me, and I retained his canter with my previously dragging feet. Without as much deadweight to worry about, he readjusted Jacob who audibly groaned, and slung his weapon into a more accessible position.

When I realized I was free to move about, I drew my own pistol and aimed ahead down the metal ramps. There were few batarians to really worry about. Jacob and I had punched quite a hole on our way inside. But, every so often a horde would surge, and Nax would obtain a bloodthirsty glint in his eyes as he charged forward into battle. He left nothing behind.

"What's the matter with you human biotics? Going all soft around a little bit of eezo?" Nax barked when our ship was finally in sight.

"Our implants." I answered without any trace of irony. "Unrefined eezo basically becomes radiation poisoning…In unquantifiable amounts at least."

"But you went in anyways?" He gawked, narrowly avoiding a bullet to the face.

"Absolutely," I answered. My blue corona surged from my shoulders to my fingertips to capture our enemies in a lethal warp field. A migraine still lingered, but I no longer felt as though my biotics would thoroughly kill me.

"Hah!" Nax barked in approval as we charged for the docking ramp in a last ditch effort. "You have a quad, human!"

Jacob was nearly awake by the time Nax flung him onto the nearest medical cot in Batha's med lab. The marine merely groaned in indignation. And his krogan rescuer was hardly cowed by his friend's incessant nagging to treat her patient's with an ounce of compassion. Instead, he insisted that he was merciful enough to extract us in the first place, and offered her the eezo as a peace treaty.

"Taylor," I addressed my ill companion while Batha was temporarily distracted, and picked up a nearby stim-pack. "I'm going to give you an anti-narcotic pain killer. You're going to feel a pinch."

And then I rammed the syringe into his neck.

"_Agh_! The hell?"

Reflexively cringing, his eyes popped open wildly. All traces of fatigue dissipated. It was replaced by frustrated skepticism- one of the few emotions I was beginning to doubt he would feel towards Cerberus when the time came for me to tell him whom I worked for.

Rubbing at his neck, Jacob grumbled lowly and earned an apologetic smile.

"Feeling better?" I asked as he slumped his way into a sitting position on the edge of his cot.

"Much." Jacob peered up at me with a soft expression. "Thanks."

"Don't mention it."

His dark eyes scanned me over. Taking note of my pallor his brows furrowed in concern. "You okay, Miranda?"

The familiar tone of his voice struck me as slightly odd. Confining even.

I did have habit of becoming professionally cordial with those of my agents that proved themselves above and beyond effective. It made business simpler and much more enjoyable whilst avoiding the stonewalling of bureaucrats, or in the siege of enemy fire. Former agents and current informants under my management were appeased of their concerns for safety, financially compensated, promised protection and amnesty in exchange for the secrets they stole from governments and corporations, and other variations of espionage they performed for me.

After all, I had to keep them invested in the cause, in Cerberus. Especially in me. As a friend or ally to rely on- regardless of the death-defying circumstances. Personal touches ran a long way with most people. No matter who they were, or who were associated with. The Systems Alliance, Cerberus, both, the Asari Republics, the Batarian Fringe, etcetera.

Not that I had many _real _friends at the time Jacob and I saved the Citadel. Fewer than I could count on one hand maybe.

And back before Project Lazarus, honest emotional entanglement was not anywhere near my radar. I did not believe I would ever allow it to be. I definitely didn't intend to find it on accident hurtling through the middle of space on a suicide mission.

There in the med bay, roaming through the final frontier on a small corvette, Jacob's tone and body language were far too genial for the mere beginning of a cordial, professional partnership.

Jacob was not the first man I found attracted to me, and he would not be the last. He was, however, one of the few I ever considered.

At least for a fleeting moment several months down the road.

His haphazardly hidden affections- although at that point they may have only molded their way into a _crush_- were both flattering and unsettling.

But, I dared not show negativity on my face. Jacob was thus far too important of an asset to blatantly discourage.

But not important enough to emotionally manipulate past the breaking point.

"I'm fine," I lied stonily. The very clang of Batha's cylinder tapping against a beaker volleyed between my eardrums, and intensified my migraine.

It was nothing I couldn't handle. I was more than accustomed to the side effects of my implant.

I gestured to our newest guest. Still on his deathbed and barely sustaining life, Illo Nazario semi-consciously awaited his promised dosage of Batha's final synthesized cure. And he would get it- so long as he told us everything we needed to know about this batarian biological weapon. More importantly who was actually behind it.

"We have an appointment." I reminded him. "Hopefully he knows something useful."

_**1730 Hours, Friday, January 17, 2183 / Cerberus Corvette, Docking Bay J31, Bachjret Ward Presidium Junction, Citadel, Widow System, Serpent Nebula, Council Space / 3 years, 4 months, 6 days Pre Reaper invasion of Earth**_

Nazario had been more than useful.

Initially fearful for his life, Illo had refused to speak. After several moments of surprisingly unheated persuasion, the turian broke down in desperation.

I had promised to offer him protection.

He had revealed batarian ambassador Jath'Amon himself was behind the formulation of the bioweapon in the abyss. The ambassador had authorized the upcoming attack, melded it to his whim. Slyly, he had fooled the Council into believing his motivations were those of peace. He had built political capital for years- enough to be spared an ounce of trust to board the Citadel for the first time in over a decade.

And, he intended to squander the opportunity for his people on petty vengeance.

_Such foolishness. _

Jath'Amon paid his price and failed. His species would not re-obtain their embassy. They were once again unwelcome. Batha's cure was spread throughout the infected like wildfire. Jacob and I landed the ambassador in C-Sec's custody.

_We even got a hefty pat on the back from the Council._

Privately and under wraps of course. They couldn't send an entire population into a frenzy of fear. I had nearly choked on my own tongue wondering how the three _supposedly_ most politically influential people in the galaxy would have reacted if they had known they were shaking the hand of a _terrorist_.

Humanity's_ hellhound _no less.

So Jacob and Major Izunami- who'd been busy planting records during my week of excavation- proved the perfect '_The-Alliance-Intelligence-Department-found-this'_ scapegoats.

I was not questioned.

I had succeeded.

I needed a drink.

"I had a bad feeling about Jath'Amon from the beginning." Jacob admitted to break the ice.

An hour after our brief delegation with the Council and C-Sec, I found the opportunity to indulge my desire in a glass or two of alcohol. Back aboard the Cerberus corvette I interrupted Jacob's attempt to pack his bags with a minor celebration.

He had dropped everything- packing, delayed receiving the paycheck I would give him when he disembarked- simply to spend a few moments in my company. Suppressing his bashful grin, Jacob had recovered his surprise well. But I could still feel his eyes boring into me several moments following my arrival.

And staring out of the observation window into the beautiful stellar clouds thousands of kilometers beyond the edges of the station's arms, we made believe I was oblivious.

I snorted. Still smiling, my gaze flickered to the man an arms length to my left. "You've just developed a poor opinion of batarians."

"Yeah, well, who wouldn't?" He grumbled, folding his arms across his chest. Conflicted about how close to my personal space he could press. "All they wanna do is shoot the next human they see."

I bit back my disapproving frown, reminding myself Jacob had not been on many interspecies assignments. In no way did I believe the marine to be a xenophobe, but over the few days I had known him, I realized Jacob formed a distinct dislike of Earth's neighboring anthropoids. I tried not to begrudge him.

"_Ah_," I debated lightly. "They're not all bad."

Jacob squinted. "If you say so, Miranda."

"Batarians can make very loyal friends…Once you've found the right ones."

"And are these _friends _anything like Ish?"

A part of my mind coated in memories- buried in the deep swath of experiences I no longer wished to relieve- flinched. Involuntary anger pulsed through my veins. Jacob had no right to throw around these assumptions regarding my personal life. He knew absolutely nothing about me, or the people I associated myself with.

I exhaled long and low. "And by that, you mean they'd rather die for me than have it the other way around? They were…reasonable."

"I see." He drawled, leaving a heavy silence.

"Well, either way, well done, Mr. Taylor." I cheerily changed the subject, clanking my glass of champagne to his in relieved congratulations. "The Alliance should give you a medal."

Jacob scowled, finding less humor in my joke. "Yeah, well, I doubt the Alliance will actually acknowledge I did anything for the Council to begin with. They'll probably just sweep it under the rug...Still, feels good to help out I guess."

I allowed his glum conclusion time to linger in his thoughts before moving in to plant a seed. "Of course it does. The Alliance has an affinity for sitting on their hands. It takes an outsider to take action _before_ writing a report on what probably happened."

"I guess you don't work for the Alliance?"

I shook my head pointedly. "My professional relationship with the Alliance has extended to partnerships, but that's all. My career allows me the free reign bureaucrats don't tolerate: Thorough investigations, opportunity, a specific cause. Parliament would have a heart attack."

"So, who _do_ you work for?" He requested.

I grinned coyly. "Maybe I'll tell you one day. But for now, know my employer and I have humanity's best interest at heart. Our work is important."

Jacob sighed and shook his head with disheartened smile. "You got that right. If this was anything to go by, you do good work."

_Good. He's interested. _

So, I told him. "My organization may be willing to invest in someone with your abilities, Lieutenant."

He raised his eyebrows in surprise. "You asking me to leave the Alliance for some secret society I know nothing about?"

"No," I answered honestly, and I caught the disguised flicker of disappointment in his eyes. "I'm telling you to consider your options. Your military expertise is invaluable, and you believe in doing the right thing. My employer holds people like you in very high regard. Instead of waiting to take orders, you could be doing something great. Like rescuing 13 million more people." I smiled before adding dryly, "Or, if that's not enough, I'm sure something with much higher stakes will come along eventually."

Something with much higher stakes did come along. Sooner than expected, and far more dangerous than I had ever actually thought possible.

Jacob pursed his lips, and studied me with deliberate brown eyes before giving a hesitant nod. "I'll think about it."

"That's all I can ask," I reassured him. "Thank you for your help, Jacob. The credits I owe you will be in your account by the end of the evening."

"Happy to help. All for a good cause."

"Of course, but I'm sure you'd still like to be paid."

He feigned hesitation, and released a nervous chuckle. "Yeah, I might need it. But, hey. Thanks again. Y'know, for dragging me out of that hole on Bekke."

"Nax," I confessed, swirling the remaining amber liquid in my glass ever so slightly, taking note of the cruisers moving about in the docking bays. "You've got Nax to thank for your life."

"Yeah, but you still called in the evac," He insisted. "I was practically out."

I blinked twice. _So there was a gap in my memory?_ "Did I?"

Jacob shrugged. "That's what I heard. Sorry, I was a little disoriented myself. You did good though. Impressed the hell outta me."

_Well I am the most expensive human being credits can buy._ But I wasn't about to share that tidbit of personal trivia.

After a few clicks on my omni-tool his funds were transferred, and I offered my empty hand. He shook it firmly, but did not relinquish his grip as he told me the pleasure had been entirely his, and proceeded to bid me farewell with a premeditated kiss to my fingertips.

_**1545 Hours, Monday, January 20, 2183 / Undisclosed Location, Cronos Station / 3 years, 4 months, 3 days Pre Reaper invasion of Earth**_

"How are you feeling, Miranda?"

"Sir?"

I rotated my gaze away from the dying star hundreds of thousands of kilometers away. So unlike Sol. At least a thousand times Earth's sun's size, and a cool cyan. There was nothing quite this shade of blue on Earth.

The star was alien. Terrifying. Beautiful.

And, slightly smaller than the mass it had maintained on my previous visit to the Illusive Man's headquarters. The difference was subtle. A normal eye would be oblivious to the alteration in distance.

Then again, I wasn't normal.

"Your report said you succumbed to eezo poisoning." The Illusive reminded me, dabbing out his latest cigarette. "I assume there are no prolonged side effects?"

"None," I agreed blandly. "Father made sure I was accustomed to the sensation."

"And your implant?"

"Better than ever."

Illusive Man pursed his lips, planted his elbows into his leather armrests, and folded his hands in front of his chest. He had always been skeptical of the adverse side effects of the L2.

But, not of the power they provided.

"_Do the pros of installing an L3 outweigh the cons of your current L2?" Illusive Man had asked me not too many days following my twenty-first birthday- just before the detrimental behavioral studies of my biotic generation were publicized. _

_My employer was all about what was best for his operatives, but I was surprised when he had asked me if I was willing to have one of Cerberus' surgeons perform a life-threatening operation on my skull. _

_I had grimaced at the suggestion. "I would rather circumvent the potential brain damage. Unlike most of my fellow L2s, I don't have severe medical complications. Any implanted human is susceptible to eezo poisoning. But, that hardly matters when it comes to what I'm capable. I can crush a mech 100 yards away, and spike to levels higher than asari commandos. You know what I can do, sir. An L3-R would be a waste of my potential."_

_He had smiled with approval of my confidence. "Very well, Miranda. I expect nothing but the best."_

"_That's all you'll get sir."_

I had not broken my promise.

"Good," My boss nodded. "I can't have one of my operatives down for the count at a time like this. Did you get a chance to read up on the Reapers?"

"I did."

"And?"

"I don't think it's impossible." _Just unlikely__. _But, the Illusive Man wasn't one to go chasing just any regular, old conspiracy theory. "It would certainly explain how Saren is able to influence geth, and the rapid destruction of such a powerful empire. But if the protheans were so powerful, how come they couldn't fight back? Destroy the Reapers even? A race of sentients machine waiting out in dark space to slaughter organics doesn't make any sense."

"Their mandate is indubitably beyond mere organic comprehension," He teased our shared curiosity. The need to understand.

"Maybe," I admitted, doubtfully. "But this…indoctrination? It's very hard to believe."

"What about the Thorian?"

"The Thorian releases spores into the air that latch onto the brain's neural network. It's not mystically telepathic. Species 37 controls its thralls and creepers through a fundamentally biochemical, psychological process. How could a machine be capable of holding that power over organics?"

"The colonists on Eden Prime reported hearing a horrible noise inside their own minds."

"Sounds more like insanity than forced, witless servitude." I remarked, but when the Illusive Man withheld his response I peered at him skeptically. "Doesn't it?"

"Infrasound perhaps. Commander Shepard is adamant that the Reapers exist," He finally mused, more to himself than me.

"Commander Shepard is not a historian," I countered.

"Matriarch Benezia- Saren's accomplice- her daughter is a part of Shepard's crew. Dr. T'Soni is an archaeologist, and an expert on the Prothean Empire. She supports the commander's claim."

I pursed my lips in contemplation. Arguing that the asari was merely a child amongst her own people would have been ridiculous. Her eloquently published works and courses taught at the university on Serrice proved so. It would have been highly hypocritical.

There was hardly any room left for debate without sounding impertinent.

Sure, the theory seemed entirely farfetched at first glance, but the further I dug, the possibility of Reapers was nearly as great as it was unlikely.

His expression lingered before he glanced at me with his unnaturally luminescent blues. "Thoughts, Miranda?"

I sighed inaudibly. I needed to further my research to be certain, but the Illusive Man was so adamant. And I trusted his judgement. "Better safe than sorry. Humanity needs to prepare."

"Agreed." My boss smiled for a moment before leaning into his data files. "And Commander Shepard will eventually need to know that Cerberus is aligned with his claims. The Council will only back him until Saren is brought in for his crimes."

"Shepard's psych profile indicates he's persistent. He won't stay quiet long- if at all- if he believes the galaxy is in danger."

"Humanity will follow our first Spectre. "

"But, he can't lead them alone. Not without support."

"That's where you'll come in, Ms. Lawson."

"Me, sir?" I parrotted. I didn't think the commander would be vehement about aligning himself- let alone associating with a Cerberus operative that worked on Akuse- so soon after the unfortunate elimination of Admiral Kohuko. The opportunity to dissuade his loyalty to the Alliance and Council was not existent at this point in time.

"Not yet, but soon. When he begins to doubt the Alliance's faith in him, the Council continues to keep his claims quiet, you'll present him with an opportunity in Cerberus."

_Simple._

"I can do that."

"Of course you can." He paused. "Speaking of the commander, Alliance Intel came in with his report on Feros this morning…The Thorian is dead, and so is our ExoGeni representative, Ethan Jeong."

A minor sense of disappointment plopped into my gut. The opportunity for further studies was squandered. I muttered, "Damn."

"But the colony will survive. There were hardly any casualties after his team arrived."

I was surprised. "Species 37 didn't try defending itself? Didn't think Shepard was a threat?"

"The thralls threw themselves at the commander and the Normandy the moment the plant realized the geth were eliminated."

"I thought it might."

"He ordered his squad to use a temporary nerve toxin against them."

"Interesting. The numbers had to be a bit overwhelming."

"No reported deaths."

"Impressive."

_** **Saturday, January 5, 2165** / _**Element Zero Exposure Trial, **_Henry Lawson's Estate, _**Hunter's Hill, Greater Sydney Metropolitan Area, NSW, Australia, Earth, Sol, Local Cluster / 21 years, 4 months, 18 days _**Pre Reaper invasion of Earth**_**_**_

Henry Lawson's voice was cool as he spoke into the comm, echoing in my arena.

He recorded, "Log: January 5, 2165. Time is _0530 _hours. Miranda is fourteen years of age. An L2 biotic implant prototype was inserted into the base of her brain two days ago on January 3, 2165. Affects were tested yesterday by Dr. Chang. Her biotic abilities proved substantial. Today we will study the affects of further unrefined, element zero exposure to subject in the middle of a combat simulation. We theorize discovering an increase of EZNs along her NS."

A multitude of scientists leaned over terminals and control switches to monitor the sequence of events up beyond the thick pane of glass that composed the observation windows above me. Others stood clustered with datapads, transfixed upon where I stood proudly, leveling them with an expression of resolved steel. In a room outfitted to train an army.

Not a young girl.

The sole gladiator in a coliseum to participate in her own father's _munera_. For research. For entertainment.

A _venatio. _To hunt and slay mechs as though her entire body were a weapon.

I was ruthless against my opposition. My teeth bared, fists and shoulders blaring in azure flame. Crouched in preparation to strike. The droids fell like dominos.

Then, the scientists unleashed the unrefined eezo.

Suddenly, I stiffened, panicked. Dipping down into the sanctuary of cover in the combat simulator as the bots returned fire. A cool sweat from sudden illness had broken out over my body.

"Father?" I called out to ceiling, searching for my maker's reassurance. My voice was weary as the first waves of the untarnished, non-electric currents of element zero swept through the room and my body.

No response.

My features hardened in undisguised resentment, but my movements doubled in ferocity. I captured mechs with ground-quaking pulls, and detonated them with warp fields so violent the scientists were forced to shield their eyes from the glare.

Even asari adolescents would have found difficulty in matching me.

The unrefined eezo continued to pour into the room in greater quantities, and I hesitated again. A clear wave of nausea washed over me. Green tinged my face. My features contorted in ache, and my chest heaved with shallow breaths. Though my shoulders and arms glowed with the ferocity and strength of the asari legends of the goddess Athame herself, a pale, dying light had entered my eyes.

"What's happening?" I choked. "What is this?"

Suddenly I lost the will to maintain my barriers. My movements were delayed just enough for a LOKI to graze me with a concussive shot, and I- a mere child- gasped in distress. Fresh bruises and lacerations checkered along my face and stung my upper body. It was enough to knock me off balance. Off my game almost entirely.

I felt the increased dose flooding into the arena travel across my skein and down my spine, definitely igniting every EZN in her body. All stemming from my implant.

It was incredibly painful. Like being burned by acid. Poisoned by my own skin.

"Themis!...Themis," I called out under barrage of fire to my instructor- one of Thessia's deadliest commandos. There was practically no color left in my face. I could feel the flush that cause the rosiness of my cheeks depart. I groaned with shorts gasps of air, forcing the words out against the pressurized sensation. "This…isn't normal…I can't breathe."

"It's just eezo, Miranda." A distinct asari voice protruded from the intercom. So calm and steady. Only the matron's sublinguals-which I could hardly detect in my current state- betrayed her doubt as she stood fast amongst the researchers. Themis lied to me- her student. "It won't hurt you."

Of course it was hurting me.

"Please!" I pleaded under the force of my protective barrier. A distinct shortness of oxygen in my lungs prevented my words from maintaining clarity. Blood began to stream from my nose and ears. "Stop. Please...ask my father to stop."

From all I could tell Themis made no move to oblige me, clearly fearful of losing her occupation- or worse. I spared a risky glance up at the observation window to see the asari's eyes merely moved from me- her ailing charge- to the my maker. Loyal to the paycheck, there was clearly no bond between us. Only the duties assigned by the head of the Lawson estate.

"Father!" The hoarseness of voice rubbed my throat raw as I crumpled in on myself under fire and exertion of energy.

Henry Lawson stood still as a statue, no emotion plastered across his face apart from frustration. Disappointment.

My eyes were sunken, my cheeks gaunt, my complexion gray. My blue aura rose and fell in spastic waves, bathing the entire arena in a blinding sapphire blaze.

"Daddy…" I collapsed onto all fours. Tears and distinctly scarlet human blood streaked down the ashen skin of my cheeks. "Please…"


	9. Lazarus Years Pt4 Cornerstone

**Pt.4 Cornerstone**

_**1615 Hours, Tuesday, April 15, 2183 / Fairmont Empress Hotel, Vancouver Island, Victoria, British Columbia, Canada, UNAS, Earth, Sol, Local Cluster / 3 years, 1 month, 8 days Pre Reaper invasion of Earth**_

"_Normandy_ is missing."

There was a sinking sensation in my gut. Two days prior, the Illusive Man had flagged me down from a brief act of reconnaissance in San Diego to have a look into the sudden absence of reports we had been intercepting regarding the whereabouts of the SSV Normandy. After all, he had charged me with dissuading Shepard when the time came.

Suffice to say, news of a missing ship belonging to the Spectre was not what I wanted to hear.

"Well, I suppose that answers whether or not you took a peek at the data files." I flashed an unamused smile at my expected guest.

"Of course." Abraham Rumoi dutifully settled his entire bodyweight into the leather chair beside me, and placed a cloth napkin in his lap. The Alliance Intelligence Officer was not a tall man, but he was lean, agile and strong. With a decent sense of humor. Built for the work he provided. "I usually like to know what I'm stealing. Some of the valuables I come across in my line of work are dangerous. If the line is traced back to me I could wind up in a lot of trouble. Better to know I'm risking my neck for a good cause."

"A kleptomaniac with standards," I mused.

Abraham's expression grew deeply offended. "Well, I don't pilfer. There's no reward in snatching wallets if you don't have to. Besides, better safe than sorry, right?"

I nearly snorted in disbelief, "Says the self-proclaimed best thief in the galaxy…Cucumber sandwich?"

"Thanks. Tasteful ambiance by the way." For a moment, he grew silent and thoughtful. In his dark eyes there was almost a wistful shimmer. But then, he flashed a playful grin. "I think I'm in second place actually."

"Because_ that's_ what I want to hear from the man I've hired to bring me the most _reliable _information an expert can get their hands on," I clucked my tongue to the roof of my mouth in dry sarcasm. "Do you tell all of your employers what they want to hear, Mr. Rumoi?"

"It's good for business. Whispering sweet nothings and what not."

I nearly cracked a crooked smile, but managed to keep a straight face. "A remarkable sales pitch."

"Yeah, but I usually only save that for my clients with good intentions." It was more of a dare, a challenge for me to allude otherwise.

I rolled my eyes and countered. "How do you know I'm going to do the right thing with the intel?"

"I don't," He admitted. "We've been acquainted for awhile, though. And you seem to be the only one that actually gives a damn about what happened to our Spectre out in the Terminus. Favor for a favor I guess."

"Are you sure you know me?" I goaded with an imploring raise of an eyebrow.

"I know your name isn't Andi Dawson." He murmured.

"And your name isn't Abraham Rumoi," I shot back, bringing an impromptu halt to the revelation of our aliases.

My eyes roamed the datapads he had slid underneath the cup of tea in my grasp. Images of the Alliance's prize prototype colored each page like a child's storybook. Amongst the texts were details of her layout and groundbreaking technological advances, important dates regarding her maiden tour of duty- though many missions were still far too classified to flounder amongst the data in my hand. There were also short-handed dossiers on the three commanding officers she had already hosted, and reports of her recent absence in communication.

"So the Alliance is…?" I left the question hanging in the air.

"Calling off the search for the ship," His irritated grumble belied the way he nonchalantly groped for the kettle I had ordered several minutes before his arrival. "It's a goner."

"Typical." I frowned and shook my head when I came across a similar tidbit of information. "And so is the commander…According to the brass."

His features hardened. "He was the one person able to convince anyone of Reapers. I can't believe they're giving up on him so easily."

I was unapologetic. "I can."

Abraham paused and gave the tea lobby a suspicious once over. "Should we even be discussing this here?"

_The table was laid. There were the best things with a fat pink rose on the side of each cup; hearts of lettuce, thin bread and butter, and the crisp little cakes that had been baked in readiness that morning._

High tea at the Empress was not typically a time for eavesdroppers. It was a time for upper class tourists to experience customs of the former Commonwealth Nations, and for the wealthy relish to in their exorbitant lifestyle. Show face for friends, and strike up business deals with others. Lavish and grand, and as artificial as such a stoic culture could become. This was familiar territory.

I knew the Empress well.

Perhaps the only courtesy of my father.

I shrugged and took a bite out of one my cube-cut cucumber sandwiches. "We're simply having a conversation."

"Alright," He consented as I continued my crescendo of absorption through the datapads. Abraham's eyes grew woeful as he read over my shoulder. "Looks like the poor guy died on his birthday."

"People die everyday," I reminded him.

He frowned deeply. "That's a little cold, Andi. He wasn't even thirty."

"He made it to twenty-nine."

"By maybe an hour. He was just a kid."

I scoffed, and glared down at the picture of the _Great _Commander Shepard glowering back at me. The photograph must have been taken just after his harrowing escapade on Virmire where he had abandoned a friend to perish- when he had been grounded from his mission to pursue the now deceased Saren.

It was one of the few times I could recall him openly leering in anger during an interview since he had obtained his public status of Spectre. And he had stonewalled the press- who had nagged for answers regarding the secrecy surrounding Saren and his geth throughout the entirety of his lurk from Council Chambers- with all of the animosity he was probably capable of exerting.

Even Emily Wong, whom he seemed to thoroughly enjoy rattling off stories for.

At one point, I had been sure he was prepared to strike out at Westerlund's infamous arsehole, Khalisah Bint Sinan al-Jilani. A vein in Shepard's temple had merely throbbed, his face obtained a purplish hue, and a krogan had stolen the opportunity. Irritation and contradicting amusement had flashed in his brightly colored irises. Yet before he could open his mouth to reprimand or protest, Shepard had been ushered away from the cameras by a blue-faced turian.

Shepard's normal cheerfully optimistic facade that he paraded around for the public had vanished. Instead, his eyes were hard, his lips pursed in a straight line, and his cheeks were gaunt with stress. He wore the face of a man that had seen death a hundred times over.

A man that knew sacrifice.

And for once, I was convinced his motivations were deeper than the duty of a simple marine following orders. They were genuine.

"He wasn't a child." I argued.

"Maybe not," He shrugged. "But that's too short of a life…And they aren't even going to tell his mom yet."

Sure enough, the Alliance brass had already prepared a message to send to his mother four days from today. The data read as followed:

'_April 19, 2183_

'_Dear Captain Shepard,_

'_It is with the deepest regret that I inform you that your son, Lieutenant Commander Ernest J. Shepard, service no. 5923-AC-2826, member of the special ops N7 marine program, Commanding Officer of SSV Normandy SR-1, has been reported Missing in Action since April 11, 2183 by his surviving squad members._

'_Additional information has been received from survivors indicating that the Normandy was attacked by an unidentifiable enemy in the Amada System. As far as we can assume, the attack was instigated by the geth. Five escape pods containing twenty-three crewmembers were recovered, while twenty-one personnel have been reported missing along with the vessel itself._

'_Believing you may wish to contact the surviving crew members and the families of those that disappeared along with the SSV Normandy, I am inclosing a list of the men and women and the names and addresses of their next of kin._

'_Please be assured that a continuing search by land and space is being made to discover the whereabouts of our missing personnel. As our special forces continue advancing into the Terminus and other geth occupied territory and send us intel, we will be pleased in providing you any additional information._

'_Ernest was a fine young man, and it brings me considerable grief to relay this message. He was a superb marine, a charismatic commanding officer, and one of the most intelligent people I have ever had the privilege to know. Know that his entire crew and myself considered him to be the most efficient and outstanding promise for the human race in our brief history. You can justly be proud of your son, Hannah._

'_If I can ever be of further service, or bring future consolidation, do not hesitate to call upon me._

'_Sincerely yours and with the deepest regrets,_

'_Steven Hackett_

'_Admiral, Alliance Fifth Fleet'_

_**Friday, April 18, 2183 / Undisclosed Location, Cronos Station / 3 years, 1 month, 5 days Pre Reaper invasion of Earth**_

I stalked calmly towards the thickly paned window, and scowled out at the new dwarf star the Illusive Man had chosen to orbit Cronos. This one bled an angry red.

"They've declared him MIA." I announced. "Not publically. Not yet. We've got at least another three days before they reveal a ship that might be _Normandy_ has even fallen off the radar. No doubt so they can tie up any loose ends."

"Which gives us time." My boss's synthetic eyes roamed the data I had retrieved for him. His holographic monitors were organized by personnel reports, sightings, and trajectory statistics.

"But not much."

There was a heavy pause. Then Illusive Man took a drag on his cigarette and said, "The Alliance has given up any lingering hope of retrieving the commander. They will not interfere when we begin our own search."

"So has the Council, but the Terminus Systems, merc groups, foreign agencies. They most certaintly haven't. Who knows what they could possibly desire Shepard for? Either way, he's incredibly valuable."

"A fallen hero- a human hero no less- is invaluable." Illusive Man drawled. "Though it's no surprise the Council has decided to waste their time elsewhere. Shepard was drawing too much power and influence away from them. He's made many friends in high places...and many enemies."

"Shepard did everything right." I insisted. "More than we could have hoped for. Saving the Citadel- even sacrificing human lives to rescue the Council. Our race has the trust of the entire galaxy. We've earned our seat on the Council a hundred times over." I glared back out at the dwarf star. "And it will never be enough."

My boss flicked a file from his holo screen in contemplation. "Our sacrifices have earned the Council's gratitude. Nothing more."

"We're still second class citizens." I murmured icily. "The old races will still refuse to listen to us. So stuck in their ways. None of their traditions will ever matter when the Reapers arrive on our doorstep."

Any reservations I had held a few months prior of the supposedly mythical sentient machines had all but vanished the day Sovereign attacked the Citadel. I had caught the live feed of the brave and unintelligent citizens daring enough to record the attack instead of running for their lives- into the deeper levels of the wards. The dreadnought had torn the Council fleet apart with its crimson gun. And, I was under the nagging suspicion that a piece of the Reaper was sitting shielded in one of the lower labs of the station for research. At least, I was certain that was what I passed by on my way up to the Illusive Man's office.

"Shepard remains our best hope. Regardless of how displeased they are with his chaotic nature, the Council does respect Shepard."

I gnawed the inside of my cheek for a moment as I wondered whether or not the Council was truly grateful for the Citadel's population as a whole, or simply their own sorry hides. They'd kept their gratitude for my own efforts in preventing the batarian bio weapon from going off in the galaxy's heart very underhanded.

All under the table.

After all, they could never publicly thank Cerberus- the organization they had so frivolously declared a terrorist institution.

Now, they were willing to sweep the blatant evidence of Reapers under the rug in favor of keeping a calm population.

_Bureaucracies. _I scoffed internally.

"But they sent him to his death by geth. Non-aggressive flashlights!" I pursed my lips, and turned from the window to see one of the Illusive Man's assistants pass him a datapad and scurry away. "Such a pointless waste of life. Geth don't wander beyond the Veil unless provoked by circumstance. We both know they're not the real threat. Their gods are. Reapers are still mulling around in dark space. They'll be here in our galaxy soon enough."

"And their arrival is up to humanity- up to _Cerberus-_ to prevent," He agreed, taking a drag on his cigarette.

My arms folded across my chest. "The Council will never trust Cerberus. They'll never accept our help. Even after everything humanity has accomplished." _Even after what Mr. Taylor and I did for them._ "But Shepard...they'll follow him. He's a hero, a bloody icon. But he's just one man. If we have lost Shepard, humanity might well follow."

"Then see to it that we don't lose him."

My jaw set in determination. "I'll find him, sir. Don't expect much more than a body, but I will amend that."

How I would reverse such a final fate, I did not yet know. But I was determined to defy the laws of nature if I was so forced to do so.

Illusive Man rose his eyebrows in interest. My decision to do the impossible had always seemed to impress him. "Of course, Operative Lawson. I have the utmost faith in your pursuit."

* * *

><p><strong>AN: **Yay! We're finally getting into ME2/Foundation stuff! Don't worry for those of you that still like to read past history, I will definitely be including that along the way. I really hoped you guys like this chapter. And I gotta ask, do any of you have any nagging suspicions about who Miranda's contact was? Or was I kind of a dead giveaway?

If you'd be so kind leave me your thoughts, comments, questions, or concerns in a review or PM. I love hearing from you guys, and your input is very insightful. Thanks to my new followers/favoriters! :D Much obliged.


	10. Lazarus Years Pt5 Foundations

**Pt.5 Foundations**

**_1800 hours, Monday, April 21, 2183 / Presidium, Citadel, Widow System, Serpent Nebula / 3 years, 1 month, 2 days Pre Reaper invasion of Earth_**

_"As cleanup efforts on the Citadel continue, word that one of the Alliance's top ships, and the commander reportedly at the heart of the effort to end the Battle of the Citadel, has gone missing. We'll go in depth after this short break."_

There it was.

The news of Shepard's and the Normandy's disappearance had spread like wildfire since the official, public announcement late last night. A standard degree of shellshock covered the faces of all species that caught word of the great battleship's sudden absence. _Normandy _had seemed so invincible, particularly her commanding officer. Most civilians still clung to the hope that their savior would return, that the Alliance would continue their search. After all, humanity's first and only Spectre had colored the vids and posters for months.

But, finding the truth was not difficult for those that looked hard enough. All I had to do was scout one of luckier bars in the Presidium, and discover every single Alliance marine in mourning. Including the one I was looking for.

"Jacob Taylor," I called to the man hunched over a counter, ordering another of only god knows what. "Last time I saw you, you were celebrating."

His heard perked up at my voice, and his gaze swiveled round to find me. Recognition passed through his brown eyes. Even in his drunken stupor, I caught a flash of delight. But there was that same melancholy defeat, the same deadness floating through them all. "Lawson?"

"You don't look like you're celebrating," I mused wryly.

"Why would I?" He slurred, turning back to his drink. "We got our asses handed to a race of AI's. What's everybody calling them now? Flashlights?"

"Flashlights," I agreed.

"The Council is telling everyone the geth are nothing to worry about," Jacob let out a sour laugh. "Right. The _geth_ are nothing to worry about."

"No," I decided sardonically, waving a bartender down. "They just wiped out the Fifth Fleet…"

_…Thanks to Shepard. _

My tactical mind- instilled by mentor- had already done the math a hundred times over. Had Shepard chosen to abandon the Council, the cost of human lives would not have been so devastatingly high. Regardless of the faith other species now supposedly bestowed in our race, perhaps it had been a faulty decision. But, there was no changing the past.

"Exactly. And, what's making it worse: The Alliance is swallowing the lie."

"Not surprising. Hopefully it tastes like razor blades. Is that all that's led you to drink yourself to death?"

"Well, _Normandy _is missing. Along with Commander Shepard. But that's nothing to worry about." His eyes darted downwards in apprehension. He was trying to convince himself.

I frowned, crossly. "This is undignified, Jacob. The last time we worked together, we made quite a splash. And here you are, beating yourself up over rumors and one bad battle."

He clinked his glass to mine, downtrodden. "Here's to the good ole' days then."

I rolled my eyes. "Three months ago."

"Feels like a lifetime ago," He drawled crossly, staring at the drink he had yet to consume.

I couldn't help but wonder if he had ceased drinking because I had arrived, or simply because he was trapped in unhappy thoughts. Either way, my patience with Jacob's indecisiveness was beginning to wear thin. I had spent far too much time searching for him. When I hadn't found the marine at his apartment on Bachjret Ward yesterday, I had scouted Flux on the Tayseri Junction, then discovered the rubble of Chora's Den- _thank god it was closed- _and today I had found him in the Diplomat's Lounge. Once prestigious, it had become a mad house for commoners and soldiers. I had a missing hero to find.

I kept myself in control of the situation. One way or another, I would lure the sobering Jacob in. "You know, Mr. Taylor, I came here to offer you a job. One of even greater importance than rescuing a couple million people from a bioweapon."

"Oh, yeah?" He muttered glumly.

"That's right. But frankly, I don't think you're up to the task."

"Well, that makes two of us."

Jacob's psych profile, and the week that I had spent with him investigating, had given me the fair impression that if given the opportunity to do something meaningful, he would snatch the chance. So, with his final word, I turned on my heel, and began to saunter out of the bar. I called loudly over my shoulder. "Too bad. You could have made a real difference."

Completely sobered, Jacob gave chase, providing an opportunity to be thankful I had not been incorrect in my assumption that he would follow. I was halfway down a semi-demolished hallway when he called out, "What kind of job are we talking about?"

I slowed my pace by a fraction so he could match my steady canter. I kept my voice level as we passed a broken Aveena terminal. "I work for an organization unbound by the laws and regulations of the Alliance. Or, the Council for that matter. We seek freedom, growth, and equal rights for humanity."

"You never told me who you worked for," Jacob stated it like a question, not an accusation.

Peering out of my peripherals, I glanced at him sideways. "Do you trust me, Jacob?"

"Yes." And he had technically only known me for a week.

"You've undoubtedly heard of us. We've received some recent media attention." I started, allowing him an opportune moment to narrow his own guesses. "The organization I work for is Cerberus, and we know there's something much larger than simple geth to worry about. More importantly, we're doing something about it."

"About the Reapers?" Jacob floundered for words. "But, Cerberus is a te-"

"Terrorist organization?" I finished for him with raised eyebrows. His silence was all the confirmation I required. "Hardly. But it is the reputation the press likes to give us."

"Really?"

"Really."

"They did seem rather well funded from what I could tell, with our last mission."

A small smirk graced half of my lips, "If you're thinking we launder, you're slightly off base. There are a lot of people on Earth who believe in our cause: Advance humanity."

Jacob pursed his lips in hesitation as I made my way onto an elevator. "Right," He drawled, "All the xenophobes."

There was no need to scowl over such a common assumption. The prejudice was typical. So, I simply asked, "You think the Alliance is free of prejudice?"

"Oh, no. I've met my fair share of racists in Alliance uniforms." _At least he agreed on something. _"But we're accountable for our actions, not our beliefs. Cerberus seems _driven _by its beliefs. Like the SSV Geneva incident."

"First, I was a child. Second, we never sponsored them," I decided to enlighten him. "The sole captive was a rogue operative, and used us as a scapegoat." Wryly, I added, "We purchase our tainted antimatter fair and square."

Tainted antimatter was illegal.

Jacob's sense of humor was almost worse than my own, as evidenced by his next statement. "I don't know who you're accountable to, Miranda."

"We are accountable to humanity. If we fail, then so does every human alive."

"How do you know if you're failing, or succeeding?"

"You'll have to decide for yourself, Jacob."

His voice was hesitant. "I'd have to leave the Alliance…"

"I thought you took sabbatical?" I teased.

"I did, but with the geth, Brass asked me to pick up a gun again."

"Come on a mission with me," I insisted. "See for yourself what we're doing. "

Mr. Taylor was silent for the longest of moments. War raged in his eyes, but I knew which side was losing. The moment the lift came to a halt, he asked cautiously, "Where would you go?"

The doors opened to reveal an absolutely horrendous view of the Presidium. Rubble and soil eroded the ground of the balcony we stepped out onto, along with the lakebed. And some areas continued to smolder. Something I considered a fire hazard.

"Well, location is classified. I could tell you more tomorrow…if you show."

"What kind of mission are we talking about?"

"A mission to bring back a fallen hero. Someone who has the ability to save us all from the greatest threat this galaxy will ever face."

"This hero have a name?" Jacob wondered as I leaned against one of the sturdier railings I could find.

"Commander Shepard."

**_1030 Hours, Saturday, July 4, 2167 / Nos Astra, Illium, Tasale System, Crescent Nebula, Terminus Systems / 18 years, 10 months, 19 days Pre Reaper Invasion of Earth_**

"Are you going to continuously refrain from telling me where we're going, or will I be forced to hack the car and drop us out of the sky?"

I was somewhat serious. While I regarded putting myself at the mercy of someone else as a test of character, I was never unprepared for them to fail. Perhaps it was reflex that drove me to drop that bombshell on Lentz. Even in the most light hearted of ways.

"Has the commander tried to get you to work on tact?"

I mulled the thought over for only a fraction of a second. "Petrovsky appreciates straightforward coercion."

My companion snorted. "Because threatening double suicide is very compelling."

"Who said anything about me dying?" I countered.

A crooked smile wormed its way across Lentz's face as he leered out into the bustling traffic of the asari-dominated planet. Even after the usual morning rush hour, the skyways were flooded with individuals willing to kill themselves to reach their destination on time. So, I was very uneasy when the lieutenant removed his dark eyes from the road and placed them on me- my eyes, my mouth, downwards, and then back up all in a matter of an instant.

"That usually comes- you know- with the whole crashing, falling hundreds of feet to the ground like a brick because the passenger suddenly decides she wants to reroute the car's interface." He peered at me sideways. "Unless Petrovsky has recently taught you a thing or two about flying."

"I happen to be a fantastic pilot."

"Ah, that's right!" Lentz's eyes lit up wolfishly. "I thought I heard about your little escapade through New Thales last week. Bravo. Only twenty recorded traffic violations and counting. Very subtle."

I scowled, slightly perturbed. That assignment had been privy to myself, and my mentor. "I utilized all my options to accomplish a task. Besides, I don't believe anyone asked you. Snooping around files, Lentz?"

"Cerberus is full of secrets, but our HQ is something special. Everyone at The Farm is like one big, unhappy, gossiping family," He explained wryly. "The report was no longer classified, and Petrovsky likes to gush."

My face grew hot, deeply offended. My mentor was a stoic man of articulate thoughts, a vivid and colorful diction, and a level head. One that I took great pride in. He was above petty gossip. "Petrovsky does not gush."

"He certainly speaks highly of you, Lawson."

A surge of pride swelled up in my chest, but it easily gave way to my renewed suspicion. The car had dropped numerous stories in elevation on direct descent. The density of skyscrapers had lessened along the horizon, and the city center was several kilometers behind us.

"So where are we? You haven't driven me all the way to the suburbs just to dump my body somewhere," I surmised before adding a pointed, "Right?"

"No." He let out an abashed laugh and averted his eyes long enough to settle the speeder down. "I'd be much too afraid to upset the Illusive Man. Or you."

"No secret society you're going to induct me into?"

"One too many cults would take its toll," He teased.

We landed on the outskirts of a park atop a skyscraper, wide enough to encompass ten biotiball fields, near the edge of the Nos Astra arcology. Heat made surface settlement on the majority of Illium practically unbearable for any race- aside from the natural flora and fauna. Polar regions were lucky to be renowned for their jaw-dropping resorts. While the rest of us residing around the geographical tropics enjoyed the dazzling city lights and constant muggy weather.

A breeze swept across the field, tussling the large, spiraled leaves of the dendrites scattered about the clearing- an oak native to Thessia- and clearing the sky of its grey blankets as we began our trek across the grounds. After several minutes of wandering, we came to halt beneath one of the largest trees. Unceremoniously hurling me a pair of binoculars, Lentz pointed upwards and instructed me to climb.

"Excuse me?" I said, reproachful.

"Just to the seventh branch."

The seventh branch was at least thirty feet above us.

"You first," I insisted, not quite prepared to turn my back on him.

He shrugged, tightened the straps to the backpack he had brought with us, and found his footing amongst the roots. "Fair enough."

I was right behind him. "I'm going to be sorely disappointed if all we're doing today is climbing trees. You're not wasting my day, are you Lentz?"

"What's with all the questions?" He called down, a combination of amusement and exasperation in his tone. "Don't you trust me? Well, no…wait. I guess you wouldn't. You don't seem easily won over…Even if I did help rescue you and your sister."

"Answering my questions would certainly help me determine whether or not I should." I told him as he offered me a hand to help me clamber up onto the wide, twisting branch he had chosen to settle on.

Lentz released an exaggerated sigh. "I told you-"

"It's a surprise?" I drawled. Lamely finishing his current mantra, I pegged him with a steely glare for the umpteenth time that morning.

"We're going to work on your surveillance technique." He corrected, directing my attention to the swarm darting in and around the gazebo approximately half a klick beyond crystal clear range for my impeccable vision.

I frowned lightly, struck by curiosity for his peculiar surprise. "What's over there?"

"Take a peek," Lentz suggested before leaning back against the trunk of the tree and folding his hands in his lap with a wide smile berthed across his face.

"A party? No...wait." All of the color drained from my face. My throat constricted around my words. "Why did you bring me here?"

Held in her mother's arms at the center of the gazebo, surrounded by family and friends, was my sister, celebrating her very first birthday.

* * *

><p><em><strong>AN:** _Hey, guys! I'm so, so, so sorry about the delay with getting this out! Nursing school has made my life hectic. Good news is, the next chapter should be out Thursday, or Friday at latest. I'm sorry it's short, too. Hopefully, it's enough to satisfy you. Thanks to my reviewers, followers, and favoriters! Much obliged.


	11. Lazarus Years Pt6 Infiltration

**Pt.6 Infiltration**

**_0200 Hours, Saturday, April 26, 2183 / Outskirts of Jalnor, Lorek, Fathar System, Omega Nebula, Terminus Systems / 3 years, 27 days Pre Reaper invasion of Earth_**

I discovered my final lead in the quest for Shepard's body on Lorek amongst the gang-infested slums of the miserable, swamp planet's capital.

Oddly enough, I tended to complete numerous puzzles in ghettos: where the boss hid, where the next stop for the cartels were. But my favorite thus far in my life was definitely the answer to, 'where is Commander Shepard's body?'

Of course getting there was hardly pleasant. Doing the dirty work rarely ever is.

"What have you got, Ratok? Smells funny." A batarian grumble rolled across the putrid wafts of wind that howled through the slum's alleyways.

_Two yards away. Maybe three._

Judging distance purely through sound whilst hanging upside down was actually rather simple. At least so long as my captors were oblivious to the fact that I was very much awake. My senses had flooded back to me merely seconds after the bomb went off.

_The damn bomb that blew up company property!_

Ah, well. At least the corvette had not been a ship of great importance. The Illusive Man would simply send me another to continue my scavenger hunt for Commander Shepard.

But first I needed the intel on the body these batarian thugs were in possession of.

"Humans always have that sickeningly sweet smell, don't they?"

_I don't believe that was a compliment._

"It's disgusting," The guard at the door huffed and spit at Ratok's feet.

_No, definitely not a compliment._

"Anyways, this is a special gift for the boss." My holder praised himself as he readjusted my limp body over his shoulder.

"Scrape up a two-eyed for any particular reason?" The first voice wondered.

"She was causing trouble."

And I was about to cause a whole lot more for these idiots.

…

So long as Jacob didn't run in and screw everything up.

Brief acts of heroism certainly fit his psych profile. Assuming I was taken against my will by these thugs would be the most likely conclusion he would draw. His protective instincts would kick in, and he would come charging after me because that's what soldiers like Jacob do. They defend people they consider friends, family, loved ones, and the innocent.

A nice quality when not used excessively. Or idealistically.

I believe at that point in time, Jacob had already heaved me into _Category A_- and was highly considering _Category C_. That was rather idealistic.

Alas, I deviate.

"Torthak!" My holder cried, losing his grip on me.

My body was dumped to the unforgiving ground like a bag of sand- haphazardly and with little concern for the pavement's wellbeing. Unceremoniously falling limp onto a new wound- especially one yet to be cleansed of shrapnel belonging to a spacecraft- was never a pleasing sensation. In spite of the delightful tingling in my shoulder, I kept my mouth shut and my eyes squeezed, feigning unconsciousness until I deemed it necessary to make my awareness known.

A veil of my black hair shadowed my immediate view. My peripherals were entirely covered, but from the sounds, smells, and the slivers of view between dark strands provided me with a sum of my surroundings. I was in a warehouse, approximately two klicks northeast of the landing pad Jacob and I had docked in- where my ship should have still been had I not been betrayed by my contact. Nearly six pairs of feet shuffled against the dirt-laden floor, with at least five more in adjoining rooms, and two guarding the front door. I counted a total of nine exits: the front door, the backdoor, double doors with an adjacent hallway, five windows, and a ventilation duct. Only three were proper escape routes.

"Ah, Ratok." A new voice chimed in sickening recognition. It was the type of condescending, false sincerity used to illicit a negative reaction. Positively superior.

I was certain I had heard it before.

Torthak's voice continued, "Good, you're here. Now someone can tell me what the hell is going on."

"I had to stop her," Ratok scrambled for words. "She was trying to escape."

_What? No, I wasn't. How stupid do you have to be to think I wanted to run? Sure, I held a gun to your head and told you to remove the explosives, but escaping? Hah!_

Allow me to explain.

Several hours prior, Jacob and I had been lured through a labyrinth of backstreets and alleyways in an attempt to meet our elusive contact. After a minor altercation, and a tad of aggressive negotiations later, I soon realized my contact valued money over loyalty. And with a hefty sum of credits on the line, the batarian gangster had informed us that Commander Shepard was basically a corpse kept on life support in a stasis pod. Of course, I immediately doubted the part about the body being kept locked up in a storage yard. So, we followed the lead for clarification, and wouldn't you know, landed ourselves right in the middle of an ambush.

By the skin of our teeth, we escaped after another round of aggressive negotiations. _Just my luck._ Swiping a few very articulate batarian cloaks for disguise- one I had been inclined to keep until it was set on fire. Such a lovely shade of ivy.- I decided to make sure my credits were put to good use, or back in my possession. At least, that's what I told Jacob. I may have desired the chance to actually regroup at our vessel to plan our infiltration into their records, but discovering mobsters placing explosives on the hull presented an opportunity.

I improvised.

"Ah, yes. Your boss was just explaining his dealings with this _human_," Torthak hissed.

And then, with a distinct thud, my contact's four dead eyes bored into my own.

_Oh… Well, dammit._

Not entirely disconcerting, but a bit unexpected_. _A pool of crimson- so much brighter than a human's and pungent with alkaline- pooled around my fingertips.

_Thank god I put on gloves today._

There was a knife in his back. Jagged, with a long handle. Unlike that of a human's, but I found myself recognizing the make. I had seen one very similar in the sheath of a friend on Anhur. I had borrowed it once or twice. Killed with it. Effective and merciless, it would certainly come in handy.

"I guess that puts you in charge of this district?" Ratok was hesitant again, skittish even, before giving my contact's lifeless body a lethargic, unenthusiastic kick. "I hope you won't be so eager to sell us out like this trash."

"No, sir," Torthak chimed, tapping the sole of my foot with the tip of his boot. "Now, what are we going to do with her?"

_Guess it's time to wake up. _

I ground my teeth before mumbling coolly, "Whatever it is, I suggest you do it quickly."

As I maneuvered my way onto an elbow, Torthak's thick hand clasped down onto my shoulder. Foul must stung my nostrils as he released a ragged breath from between those sharp, batarian teeth. Multiple canines- the trait of a species definitely more carnivorous than humanity.

"And why is that?" He hissed.

Practically inhumane speed was another gift from Father. Every little detail of my physical makeup was better, faster, stronger than the average member of my species. And, I used those tools every chance I could. Even when it came to something as simple as using the brunt of my forehead to break a nose with six nostrils.

Unfortunately, even I could make mistakes, and I still do all these years later. My timing was imperfect, and I reached for Torthak's gun in the exact instant his fingers clamped around my wrist, twisted my arm backwards, and roughly shoved my face into the dusty ground.

Blood seeped onto my shoulder as he whispered lowly into my ear. "I won't be dealt with so easily."

A horrendously marred jawline appeared in my peripheral vision. I knew that scar. Recognized it at least. I suppose I should have considered just versatile the name Torthak was amongst batarian society. I had only ever encountered one on Anhur. This man. I was certain.

_We'll see._

**_Friday, July 10, 2167 / Cerberus SERE Facility, Nos Astra, Illium, Tasale System, Crescent Nebula, Terminus Systems / 18 years, 10 months, 13 days Pre Reaper Invasion of Earth_**

Chained to the wall of a cold cell by my ankles, my eyelids grew heavier by the minute. Sleep had not been counted amongst my blessings during my detainment. I had begun to lose track of the days. This long-standing torture technique had been described to me, by Petrovsky, as among the most effective in yielding confessions. Exhaustion and sleep deprivation, combined with blaring loudspeakers and guards rattling the cage every several minutes to check in or lead a prisoner to interrogation was certainly a way to create loose lips.

After what had to be at least three, forty hour intervals of brutal cross examinations, grotesque starvation, water boardings, and uprightly shackled, bare as the day I was harvested from Father's lab, and alone with my jumbled thoughts in the cooler; my sensory deprived consciousness was beginning to understand why so many captured operatives wished to simply give in. To just admit defeat and end the torment. For the pain and suffering to cease forevermore.

So many had already crumbled in resolve and gone home, but just maybe I could hold out as long as I needed to. I could do anything, right? There were four of us left. We could persevere. If only I could have kept my eyes closed for fifteen minutes. I was so close to actually retaking an ounce of rest.

Well, until a bucket of ice water dropped my external body temperature another five degrees.

Tremors wracked me to the core as the icy sensation cut through my skin, and sunk into the very marrow of my bones. The air in my lungs solidified, preventing any sharp intake of breath. The muscles of my jaw were nearly too exhausted to even consider allowing my teeth the chance to chatter wildly.

_Oh, god! It won't stop! How long have I been here? Where is Petrovsky? When will this end?_

The screech of rusted bolts bounced off the walls of my cell, and my heart rate spiked so quickly, I began to wonder if fragments of my sternum had stabbed my aorta. I had no time to react before a black bag was slung over my head and my vision was obscured so I could be dragged into interrogation. I wasn't much for prayers, but I sincerely hoped I was not being led to water boarding. Four consecutive sessions might weaken my resolve just enough to make my lucid mind slip.

_26. 27. 28. 29. 30 steps._

_Okay, no water boarding._

My heart nonetheless hammered shamelessly away, mincing my rib cage as a heavy metal door swung and I was tossed to the ground. Incidentally, my head already sang, my shoulders and ankles ached. But when my cuffs dug into the flesh of my wrists, when I was wrenched to my feet, slammed into a stool, and introduced to an agonizingly sharp fluorescent light; I felt excruciatingly incapacitated beyond the steely glare I barely managed to present.

"How are you feeling, Miranda?"

I knew I shouldn't have hated the man across from me, patiently nursing his cup of coffee. After all, Major Doakes was only doing his job, helping me master resistance. He'd certainly played his role well- torturing my mind with contradictions, my lungs with the mock sensation of drowning, my extremities with minor electro shocks. But after a cyclical list of contingencies under his reign of terror, I positively loathed him. Perhaps, it was simple impertinence on my end.

I can still recall the way my teeth ground when he drummed a rat-a-tat with his knuckles against the metal table. With the swanky airs he portrayed, lounging back in his chair, legs crossed lazily. In my anger, I could feel the beginning of a growl rumble deep in my throat. But mere torture would not throw away my remaining ounces of dignified humanity so easily.

"You know," Doakes murmured, leaning forward with a kind voice. "I'm trying to help you, Ms. Lawson."

_Yes, I know that. You're a teacher, _I had to remind myself.

"All you have to do is sign the papers," He reminded me, scraping a manila folder against the surface of the table.

It's label read, '_Classified' _in bold letters. Inside was my one link to freedom. _The Golden Spineless Ticket._ Although, I supposed, signing didn't make the operative as weak as I had originally presumed. Being tortured into confessing war crimes was certainly _a lot_ more draining and soul crushing than the instructors had initially led on.

_That's not so helpful._

Doakes slipped a pen on top, and gestured to the grimly lit interview- interrogation- room. "All of this…would be over. You could go home. You've done an excellent job. Most people don't even make it through the fourth day. There would be no shame in quitting."

_Just agreeing to failure. To cowardice. To selling out Cerberus._

"Arnolds did," He goaded. "Just a little while ago. His handler has already taken him back to the Farm. You could be in his position. Comfortable, resting. That's what you want. Right, Miranda?"

_Yes._

My fear and exhaustion spoke first.

_No._

Then my resolve.

I stared listlessly into my lap.

_Arnolds was the weaker link. Bastard. We'll have to revise._

I should explain.

Even though exact measurements of time had become obscure and blurred, the four of us junior operatives remaining in PERE had begun to devise a means of escape. Communicating through Polybius, a rare asari tap language similar to the old Morse code, we had etched miserable marks into our cell walls and banged drowsily against the bars of our cages. All the while we recited floor plans and security rotations in our monochromatic rhythm, we attempted to throw our watchmen a curveball by verbally rattling off encouragements to one another, griping for meals, and trying to sing out pleasant old folk songs to lift our spirits. Albeit, that typically landed us an ever so enjoyable trip to the cooler.

Chen and Franklin were to be our offensive muscle- all brawn with enough brains to follow decent orders, pick up vital bits of Polybius in a matter of hours, and make educated decisions. I was our mastermind, strategist, and defensive arm as the only biotic. Arnolds had been our infiltrator and tech expert. He was supposed to have stolen back our dermal implants and unlock our cells.

He hadn't trusted us enough.

He had given in.

Now it was all up to me.

_Figures._

Doakes' voice suddenly broke through the avid silence. Colder, harsher. "Miranda, are you listening?"

The lapels of my smock were snagged as Doakes' fists clenched around either side and reeled me to my feet. He shook me so violently that the axis of my vision jostled, and the four other people in the room danced like marionettes. It certainly got my attention. As did the resounding slap to my face. Fear shot through me like a nail through my foot.

His breath was sickeningly sweet as he screamed in my face, "Sign the goddamn papers, Lawson!"

Then I snapped- or maybe it was just the bone in my thumb- suppressing the terror of predicting how horrible of a conclusion my stunt could draw, and encompassed the vicinity in a blinding, blue-white flash.

I had never moved so quickly in all of my life. Fueled by a sheer rush of adrenaline and anxiety, my bare, calloused feet barely glanced the pavement as I careened through the hallways of the facility. Away from the now unconscious or stunned operators- I hadn't absorbed much time double checking- and towards my team. I had not meant to throw them so roughly, and I certainly hoped there would be no permanent damage, but with my heart shattering my rib cage, I didn't really have the liberty to care. I just needed to run.

My shoulders burned sapphire as my corona hissed and popped, distorting the immediate matter it was absorbing. A resounding pair of leather soles beat mercilessly against the concrete from an adjacent walkway, and I hardly considered how many newtons of pressure I exerted with the biotic throw I administered. Evasion was key.

"Petrovsky!" I demanded my mentor answer the comm he was supposed to have had on his person at all times since the beginning of my vacation in PERE.

His answer was immediate, startled, and I could detect the faintest quiver of concern. "Miranda?!"

"I'm moving. I've just got to get out." I muttered lowly, trying to evade any auditory surprise for remaining guards. Of course, my gliding feet and the mess I had left behind me was very implicating.

"Bloody hell, Miranda," There was so much vehement pride in his voice that he actually swore. Oleg Petrovsky never swore. Over the line, I could hear his breath rate increased ever so slightly. He was sprinting. "That's amazing. Practically unheard of. Where are you now? What are you doing?"

Fear froze the plasma drifting through my veins the instant I hit a fork in my path. According to the layout my companions and I had devised through our experiences in the facility, I had two options. To my right was the route leading to freedom. There was enough of a blind spot in the watch to be certain that a set of guards would not erupt from the aisle for another fifteen seconds. To my left was the route that would eat my fifteen seconds and more. To my left was the path to rescue Chen and Franklin.

The decision weighed heavily in my chest, and I realized I was wasting too much time deliberating. If I left them, there was no guarantee of freedom, but I would only have to look out for myself. That was easy. Of course there were also higher odds of being recaptured, doubled punishments, and earning the title of cowardly. But if I rescued them like I had promised, I would fulfill my personal code of honor and have a team to reinforce me.

"Intercepting Chen and Franklin," I told him, panting as I bolted. My smock typically left me frozen during the nights, but the blood rushing into my face kept me alive, and vigilante enough to break a sweat.

"Good." Petrovsky buzzed in my ear. "Don't leave your team behind. They're useful allies. Keep your eyes peeled."

I had to grope the bar of Franklin's cell to bring myself to a violent halt. Franklin's wide brown eyes grew shocked at the sight of me. His hair was mused and filthy, his face ruddy and marred with bruises.

We matched.

"Lawson, what the hell?" Franklin whispered, catching his dermal implant as I worked away at the locks on his cell.

Hacking a few here, and manually breaking a few there, his cage screeched open and I bit down on my tongue in anger. Someone definitely heard that.

"Chen?" I requested, tossing him a stunner gun I had knicked from Doakes. No real ammunition was allowed in the facility. All of that 'murdering a student prospect,' would have been very counterproductive.

"The cooler."

"Cover me," I demanded Franklin, and he bowed under my command as I cracked Chen's cage.

Fortunately for us, we didn't run into resistance until after we had unleashed our last member. On the downside, we ran into _a lot _of resistance after we released Chen.

"Petrovsky, are you go for evac?" I requested, readying my biotics.

"My hands are tied. I can't offer assistance until you've cleared a kilometer." He reminded me. There were many things that slipped my mind in my deprived state. "You have to get outside. Keep a closed board, Miranda. Block their mobility and evade them. You can do that."

"Not an open board?" I tried to keep my tone light when I spoke of one of our favorite pastimes. Forever had seemed to pass since I last sat cross-legged on an old Persian ottoman in Petrovsky's living room, leering at him over a cup of tea as we bested each other time and time again. Laughing, and talking, and competing our wits.

Those times almost made me feel _normal_.

"Not unless you want to lose your knights."

A complicated piece to play with, but so rewarding, a knight could maneuver a board and evade attackers at close range. Powerful and mobile. Strategy was key.

"I do tend to like hanging onto those."

"Play to your advantage."

His reassurance was so unbelievably gratifying. I had no idea how much I relied on Petrovsky's support until that day inside of a mock prisoner-of-war camp that was so terrifyingly realistic.

We rolled in and out of rooms, improvised cover with doors and overturned tables when we were spotted, knocked our tormentors unconscious, evaded capture and detections, applied our tech skills on cameras and alarms, and shimmied through vents as we made our way downstairs. Upstairs was far too compromising of a dead end. There were no buildings close enough to leap to and from. At least on the middle level of the building we could lose our pursuers in a crowd.

And we did.

Though, not by much ground. Several civilian pedestrians offered us horrified glances as we toppled and jostled our way through them. No doubt we looked like a group lunatics on the run from the authorities. But, adorning ourselves in shadows and street wear, we hid in plain sight. There was a point I had my eyes on Chen and Franklin's safety, but not my own, and one of them had to tackle our pursuer.

I was eternally grateful. To my team. To Petrovsky, for being the quiet voice of reason in my head.

I had never been so happy to see him as the evening I crossed the finish line into the final safe zone. I still recall the way he stood at attention with several other high-ranking Cerberus operatives. The stoic commander beamed so brightly with pride, his gleeful, concerned smile outshone the congratulatory applause of all the others. Chen and Franklin were given claps on the backs, handshakes, and immediately checked over by a medic. My priorities were elsewhere.

Battered, exhausted, and filthy, I fell into Petrovsky's open arms, buried my face into his chest, and breathed a ragged sigh of relief.

Petrovsky was there when I was hurt, when I didn't understand, when I was wrong, when I lied, when I needed a laugh. For whatever reason he was always there when I needed him the most, like my shadow.

After he was gone- after I turned my back on him all those years later- there was a distinct emptiness in my core.

But, then and there, young and afraid, I was safe and protected. Because he had taught me well.

As my silent, dusty tears stained the front of his extortionate lapel, my mentor stroked my long, oily hair. Against the dulling chatter of the crowd, Petrovsky told me something I never heard from Henry Lawson.

"I'm so proud of you, Miranda."

**_0300 Hours, Saturday, April 26, 2183 / Outskirts of Jalnor, Lorek, Fathar System, Omega Nebula, Terminus Systems / 3 years, 27 days Pre Reaper invasion of Earth_**

"Typically someone with four eyes would be able to distinguish between an imbecile and a-"

I was cut off by the blunt force of an alien fist colliding with the side of my face. The shock of being struck had worn off many years ago, and my manufactured genes provided an astronomically high pain tolerance. Nonetheless, I did not appreciate the interruption.

"Incredibly rude. I was going to say traitor. I believe your friend on the floor here was nothing more than a selfish idiot. How could he know-" I said, haughtily until my cranium went spinning for the third time within the past five minutes. "How could he possibly know where the body was anyways?"

"He didn't." Torthak growled.

Short-sighted, or oblivious, he had not recognized me from our brief encounter nearly ten years prior in the boggy forests of Menhit Valley. Of course, why should he have? Torthak had been an unimportant member of the totalitarian Na'hesit, and I had not been the one to skirmish with him during the Shuffle of Menhit River. But I had seen him earn that terrible scar. And I witnessed the slaughter of a young friend.

Thus far, there was no need to remind him.

"That's what I thought." I admitted. "By the way, I've gotten to know several of your people over the years. Isn't it batarian custom to allow your guest to finish sp-"

_Whack!_

I rolled my head back up and attempted to stifle the smile on my face- the condescending habit I had developed whenever faced with an individual I automatically considered beneath me. Figuratively speaking of course. My hands were bound behind my back as I rested on my knees, and I was forced to tilt my head just so in a maddening effort to glare up at my tormentor.

"Guess not." I spoke again and earned another punch. "Well, now you need to even out the other side. I can't waltz around town all asymmetrical."

_Whack!_

"Thank you."

"Shut up, human," Torthak demanded. "The body isn't here, and you'll never see it. Who the hell are you working for?"

"Thank you for clarifying. How much did the Blue Suns pay you for it? Or was it the Eclipse?" I wondered as the metallic taste of blood seeped onto my tongue, watching Torthak's expression intently from my place on the ground. When he merely growled and tightened his fist, I immediately jumped to conclusion. "Forgive me if I'm wrong, but I don't believe you'd work very well with the asari. They tend be an organized people, and while _incredibly _superior, are rather open to other races. I don't detect that quality from you."

_Whack!_

"Blue Suns then," I decided under my breath.

"Who do you work for?" Torthak hissed again, wrenching my jaw upwards.

I eyed him defiantly. "Not you."

Growling with impatience, Torthak clenched his fists, raised one to strike me, but paused. Instead, he aimed a swift kick at my ribs, sending the breath straight from my swollen lips. He hissed at one of his henchmen, "She isn't going to talk. This was a waste of my time. Make sure you leave her body someplace easy to find. I don't want her friend snooping around here for another corpse."

Fighting the lack of oxygen in my system, a crooked smile split across my face. A trickle of blood drooped from the edge of my brow and around my eye. I goaded with a series of pants, "Aw, don't be a coward. What's the matter? Haven't got the balls to kill me yourself? Human men do tend to be quite a bit more anatomically endowed, I suppose."

The batarian ring-leader spun on his heel away from me, and began to lurk away. "I've killed plenty of women in my time."

"So have I," I conceded as his thugs surrounded me.

"Then you know you're all the same: Trying to buy more time," He scoffed. "And your time is up."

That was when I heard the familiar _tink_ of a hollow, tin metal canister. Only a yard from my face, I squeezed my eyes shut and covered my ears the very moment Jacob's flashbang eradicated the senses of everyone else in the shipping warehouse.

_Poom!_

Regardless of my efforts, I was deaf to the world. The ringing in my ear canals was practically as disorienting as the sudden madness ensuing amongst the gangsters. One dramatically hued figure fell. Then two. Then three. Each with a gaping, blood orange hole in their chest the approximate size of Scimitar slug.

In the three seconds it took to regain any feasible grasp of the visual world, I had hit the deck and slithered from immediate danger, flat on my belly. Beneath the gunfire, I kept a careful eye on hot zones, and lunged for the dagger. Premeditating the presence of a thug behind me, I rolled into my side, found myself correct, and knocked the batarian off his feet. Wrenching myself into the motion, I took acute aim, and landed on all fours overtop of him. The dagger settled nicely into his carotid artery- slightly more proximal to the throat than a human's. And as the blood splurged with his final ragged breath, I barely circumvented a painted face.

_Disgusting._

Wind began to whistle through my ears like the faint tide of the ocean hitting the shores of Dee Why back in Sydney. Somewhere in the depths of my mind it suddenly occurred to me that I had not heard the rumbles and rolls of Earth's South Pacific in many years. But, the faded echo of a very human tenor I was beginning to pick up was far more pressing, and I strained my ears to listen.

_"…__Miranda..." _

So hollow and distant, but distinct enough to decipher. Not a beckoning, but a…_cry for attention?_

My head swiveled upwards rapidly, searching for the threat. Not four meters to my right, Jacob was toe to toe with three very large, well-armed criminals. Their senses were clearly still intact as they dodged behind crates to evade the marine's rapid fire. They must have burst inside from a back office when they picked up on what was probably a tidal wave of commotion. Not one I could exactly hear.

When Jacob ducked behind a stack of bins, leaving only a fraction between himself and a bullet, I took advantage of the brief interlude I was allowed. Mustering the cooling aura of my biotics, I lashed out from my crouch and struck the foremost thug with a wicked toss of dark energy, splattering my warp field clear across his chest to eat away at his very molecular composition. Alerted to my presence, they turned on me. However, it wasn't before each of them lost all control of their body weight, flung backwards into crates.

The warehouse fell silent.

I was nearly inclined to order a clean sweep when a sizzling sensation fizzled mere inches from my ear. Frigid and scalding all at once, Jacob's biotics had gruffly dragged Torthak from his poised shelter and landed him squarely at my feet. Although, I did not believe that was where Mr. Taylor had intended for him to land, I felt a supreme rush of satisfaction with the circumstance.

My hands were around the snake's neck in an instant, his dagger's blade firmly pressed between the bony appendages of his thoracic cage. If I had an _accidental_ slip of the hand, or he so much as quivered, I would rupture the larger of his two hearts.

And Torthak knew it.

"Ironic." Flashing a rather lopsided and sore smirk, I twiddled the tip of the blade, snagging the fibers of his red tunic. "You bought me more time. Thanks. Probably should have taken advantage of your opportunity to kill me like I said, but you know men. Once you've made a decision, you're all so hard headed."

With Jacob's gun trained on his temple, Torthak's four dark eyes flickered upwards and back. Pure loathing seethed through his expression. Trapped on his knees, the batarian growled. "Screw you, human!"

"But murdering children," I hissed with a ludicrous grin. An irrationally angry bubble formed in my chest. I hated bringing emotion into these sorts of engagements. Emotions made the simple very complicated. Messy. So I suppressed them with practiced ease. "Murdering children is simple right? They can't fight back as well? Is the rush _empowering_?"

"What the hell are you talking about?" A nervous sweat had begun to perspire along his upper forehead. Fear and bewilderment dilated his large pupils. He was trying to decide who I was. If he had seen me before.

"Miranda, what are you talking about?" Jacob echoed, baffled.

My jaw muscles tensed. I blew out a long sigh, reluctant to reopen an ancient can of worms. "It's no longer important. What is important is my current mission. Care to share?"

Saliva. Torthak shared a wad of saliva with my boots.

"I don't think he's going to talk, Jacob," I dismissed the vulgarity, and parroted the alien's earlier phrase. "Are you, batarian? Do you have anything else for me on Commander Shepard? It's rather important that I have the body. So, if you could give me any further sort of useful direction, I'd greatly appreciate it."

Torthak gave me no answer. Only a steely glare.

Releasing an irritated breath, my arm shot out and yanked him onto the blade before Jacob could react. The batarian's body convulsed with the abrupt hemorrhage, and the color immediately began to drain from his features. A splatter of the orangey-red sprayed outwards and began to stain his tunic. Once again, I was thankful of my proactive decision to adorn gloves, but I wasn't looking forward to washing them out.

"Don't worry," I whispered to the dying thug. "I'll leave your body someplace easy to find."

I tore the dagger out of his chest, and stood straight with my shoulders squared away. He slumped to the ground in a lifeless heap.

"Like right here. Your friends couldn't possibly miss you when they come looking."

Beside me, Jacob radiated confusion and disgust for the mobster. And more than likely, for me as well. Slightly shocked, the marine had yet to lower his weapon. His almond eyes were somewhere between weary and furious. I was nearly certain he was prepared to throw the opportunity of Cerberus right out the window until then he threw me for a curve and asked, "You okay?"

My smile became genuinely relieved, and I wiped my brow with my forearm, ignoring the soiled still in my grasp. "Still playing the knight in shining armor?"

Jacob let out a low chuckle. "I saved your sorry ass, didn't I?"

I clucked my tongue to the roof of my mouth, and gestured to the bodies on the floor. "I was doing a bit of reconnaissance."

"That's what they're calling it now?" He teased rather openly.

I rolled my eyes, and set off to search for any signs of a back office. Not that I was expecting logs stating, 'This month we stole three million credits.' But there had to be some trace evidence, a crumb trail even.

"There's more than one way to get information."

"Yeah, I guess." Jacob frowned crossly, his full lips splitting into a thin line. He tailed me, gun still at the ready as I rummaged through a stack of old datapads I found huddled atop a dusty desk.

_Nothing. No. No. Ah, shipping manifests. This could be useful._

"It was an unnecessary risk, you know?" I told him, downloading copies and scrubbing the files clean with my omni-tool.

"Maybe," He admitted, finally lowering his shotgun. Jacob pursed his lips to scrutinize me with eyes the color of baked clay. "But you'll have to get used to it if you still want me to work with you. For Cerberus, I mean."

Quite the slip of the tongue. Or maybe it was intentional. Jacob wanted to join my cause. I was glad to hear it. Just to be sure, I asked, "Are you still on the fence, Jacob?"

He shrugged his shoulders and followed me as I swept past him and out of the building. Towards safety, freedom, and the next arc of my assignment.

"Not really."

"An emphatic noncommittal."

Lorek's blaring sun parted the blankets of the sky, and beat down upon our heads. Raising my hands to shield my eyes, I paused in my tracks to bring my omni-tool back up. I abruptly sent a message to Cerberus Command, relaying the need for extraction, tagging on coordinates, a confirmation of a crumb trail, and the contents of the information I had recovered. Thankfully, there were a few operatives working in the Fathar System, so we would only have a few hours wasted.

And then Jacob caressed my cheek with the guise of wiping filth away.

I believe the only thing that stopped me from outright renouncing the gesture was pure exhaustion.

"You've got something there," He whispered, before moving his hand away.

"Thanks," I muttered, shutting my eyes to process my next move.

Jacob took care of the next step. "Are you sure you're alright? You got the crap beaten out of you."

I did actually have a bit of a headache, but with my L2, that was nothing new. So I rolled my shoulders and stretched my neck from side to side. "I've had far worse. This was nothing new, but I'm glad you came when you did. I didn't really wake up yesterday with a desire for broken ribs, but life doesn't always give us what we want."

There was a heavy pause as Mr. Taylor considered my words. "So did you find anything on the commander?"

I huffed irritably as we slid back into the crowded slums of Jalnor. The weightless data in my dermal implant suddenly felt very heavy, and I glanced once at my wrist where my omni-tool would have glowed orange had it been on. We eased our way into the crowd to hide in plain sight for the next few hours. "Our contact was correct about the body not being here anymore. They sold it just a few hours before we got here. Commander Shepard is well on his way out of the Fathar System by now."

His features turned downtrodden. "That sucks. I'm sorry."

"Ah, we'll find the commander." My confidence was not lacking. Neither was my desire for something cool to drink. This miserable planet sapped any hydration it could from organics, only so it could create a sludgy atmosphere, and throw every drop of liquid back down with hurricane force.

Jacob's tone was surprised, "We?"

"I thought you weren't on the fence anymore?"

"Well, let's say I am interested- then what?"

"Then I'll take you to meet the Illusive Man."

"Elusive Man?"

"_Ill_usive," I corrected. That grammatical error certainly wasn't the first I'd heard, and it wouldn't be the last. "But I'm not taking you unless you've made up your mind."

"What if I've still got a few questions?"

I sighed in relief at the sight of the only decent looking dive I'd see on the streets. _Oasis _shone brightly in blue neon in my native language. The inside was cool, fairly quiet, and nice enough to relax in for a few hours. Making myself comfortable, but not ignorant to the entrances and exits, I checked the message I had just received on an encrypted channel.

_'__Well done, Operative Lawson. Estimated time until extraction: 2 hours, 39 minutes. You're permitted to head to Omega. I'll be looking forward to further discussing your report this evening. We have some very important news to divulge._

_'__-Cerberus Command'_

"Well, luckily for you- we're going to be stuck here until my boss sends us a new set of helpers. So, Mr. Taylor, I'm going to buy to buy a drink...and you may ask away."

**_2100 Hours, Saturday, April 26, 2183 / En Route to Omega, Interstellar Space, Omega Nebula, Cerberus Corvette QEC / 3 years, 27 days Pre Reaper invasion of Earth_**

"Are you certain, sir?" My heart beat in my chest so forcefully, I wasn't sure if the slightest ounce of apprehension had been kept off my face.

"I'm positive, Miranda," He muttered over a drag of his cigarette. The Illusive Man stood with his back to me, contemplatively swirling his glass of brandy on the rocks as he leered out at the vast dwarf star.

It was all very picturesque, and I couldn't help the flash of admiration for my boss. He was always so focused, resilient, and forward thinking. Quite possibly the most intelligent man I had ever met, I believe he admired the same qualities in me. He was a pedagogue for humanity and our future. Those qualities I desired to live up to.

"Why would _Collectors _be interested in Commander Shepard's body?" The very thought revolted me. Vile slavers squandering through the Attican Traverse and Terminus Systems for a few measly credits, or beings with trivial distinctions like volus middle siblings, or dyslexics. But, now they wanted Shepard. Whatever the reason be, it was very alarming to hear. "And to hire the Shadow Broker of all people. He's rolling with high stakes now, isn't he?"

Illusive Man nodded thoughtfully. "In a way, he's my very opposite in this field of information gathering. We both want Commander Shepard, after all."

"But for very different reasons," I interjected.

"Very," He conceded, turning to me.

"And apparently, he really likes to work down the chain," I added. "Blue Suns, local gangsters."

I would eventually find out just how vastly extensive the Shadow Broker's network actually was.

"His influence is immense. We need someone we can trust- someone on our side- to help bring the body in, and figure out why Collectors are so fascinated with humanity's hero."

I rose a single, imploring eyebrow. I could hunt the body on my own. The Illusive Man didn't need to expel me from my search. So why was I being sidelined? "Like…someone with a personal investment?"

"Precisely," He offered a smile.

"The Shadow Broker would know if one of Shepard's own was on their own search. That would be a dead giveaway. It's what he'll be expecting," I countered.

"And our own involvement will be obscured," Illusive Man added. "You'll be able to monitor the Shadow Broker's steps from the inside. He'll send someone to watch Shepard's friends."

I breathed an understanding sigh. I wasn't to be sidelined after all. Just elusive. "Who shall I look into recruiting? One of his old crew would seem feasible."

He flipped through a lit of characters on his holographic screens. "The turian, Garrus Vakarian, has been admitted into Spectre training. The quarian, Tali'Zorah, has returned to her fleet. The krogan, Urdnot Wrex's whereabouts are currently unknown. And the human-"

"Is a crew cut that'll run straight back into the Alliance's loving arms. They'll never trust us enough." I decided.

"But Liara T'Soni might."

"Matriarch Benezia's daughter? The archaeologist the news was raving about a few months ago? She's quite the heiress these days." I was slightly baffled as to why an asari- one of the most supercilious races in the galaxy- would be so very invested in assisting a human that reportedly killed her mother. Saving his life, or- in the very least- recovering his body, was quite an investment to undertake.

"She's already dug her way into a bit of research. Barla Von has given her quite a wealth of information. She's preparing a trip to Omega as we speak."

"A Shadow Broker agent provided her with whereabouts on the body," I echoed my thoughts aloud, trying to put my mission in perspective. "So I'll essentially be hiring a scout and a double agent?"

"I'm sure her tail will be. If nothing else."

I nodded in acceptance. "Well, I guess I'll see her soon then."

* * *

><p><strong>AN: (Important!)**Hey guys! First, I'd like to thank my new followers, reviewers, and favoriters! You guys are awesome! Please keep it up. Your support is so very helpful.

I again apologize for the wait here. My friend recently helped me work out a better schedule. So, I'm going to try and follow that to bust these chapters out sooner for you all.

Oh, I also want to apologize if any of you feel like I'm torturing you with an exorbitant amount of Jacob, or anything else like that. Let me know, and I'll see what I can do. I like him as a person, but he's just not as compelling in my honest opinion. But, he is a character involved in Miranda's background, and Shepard's story, so he's going to pop up here and there.

For any of you that read the Foundation 5&6 comics, I did scrap a few characters. But, I found them inconsequential, so I added something a bit more vital in similar context for Miranda's own background. I like my idea better. Ha! It'll be further explored later on.

Also, anyone like the way I listed every crew member _except_ the Virmire Survivor? Anyone want to take a gander? ;D I've always found that choice extremely difficult, compelling, and character defining. It's a big one, sacrificing a friend.

For any of you readers that are interested, I put some fun facts on the _Chronicles of a Hellhound Saga _up on my profile. It has some spoilers there for you if you feel like cheating. (Because no one here knows the Mass Effect story, obviously ;D) Go ahead, take a peek.

And guess who will make an appearance in the next chapter! That's right, your mother. Sorry, no. She couldn't make it.

We're getting really close to ME2. Just a couple more chapters! Thanks so much for your patience, guys. I'm so excited to start posting on Shepard, and Miranda's development. Please leave a review, follow if you like what you see, or even favorite if you'd like. Thanks guys!


	12. Lazarus Years Pt7 Redemption

**Pt.7 Redemption**

**_Monday, April 28, 2183 / Omega Station, Sahrabarik, Omega Nebula, Terminus Systems / 3 years, 25 days Pre Reaper invasion of Earth_**

Unlike the theories and dramatizations of so many popular space vids I've seen over the years- or the few I somehow managed to find time for. Shepard was always proficient at making sure I provided my mind a rest every so often- empty space is dark. Blacker than the thickest velvet curtains covering a midnight window. Vids tend to portray even the most vast of solar systems as groups of still planetoids clustered tightly together, shining brightly, lit by a star vibrant enough to be seen parsecs away.

In reality, there is no ambient radiant source scattered around deep space, or past a certain point in a solar system. Light must always be created, be it from a star or reflection. On our colonies and home worlds we have atmospheres that scramble and dispense particles in every which direction.

Space doesn't have a sky capable of this feat. There isn't any atmosphere. As a result anything subjected to powerful enough illumination in the gravitational vacuum shines on one side in stark contrast to the deep shadow of its rear. Only visible as a silhouette. Otherwise, the craft, station, or planetoid is indistinguishable from the veil.

So was the view for the _Venatrix_ on our way to intercept Liara T'Soni.

364 billion kilometers away, Sahrabarik's red dwarf was simply a spec on the distant horizon. Apart from the internal lights of the _Venatrix_, only Omega's artificial crimson halo offered us any visual interpretation within a thousand kilometers. Which was about the distance between the station and any meteorite. The reining warlords of Omega had never allowed any sizable planetoid within seven million kilometers. Kinetic barriers could only shield so much mass and velocity in an asteroid field.

And Omega's pirate queen would never allow any harm to come to her kingdom.

"Kind of looks like a Christmas tree." Jacob- Cerberus' newest operative and my current charge- peered out the cockpit window, staring intently at the space station carved into the husk of an asteroid. He stooped low, but not quite enough to invade our pilot's personal space.

"If we were flying right side up station-wise, it would look like a jellyfish," I added dryly without so much as shifting from my authoritative position in the center of the narrow cockpit. "Stings like one too, if you aren't ready for it."

"Been here before, Miranda?"

"A few times on business." I answered factually, folding my arms across my chest. "This place has got a couple of screws loose by most of the civilized galaxy's standards. Organized and random crime, slavers, piracy. So stay frosty."

"Worse than Cartagena... or Tortuga?" Jacob's quirked eyebrow amused me. I didn't believe entertained skepticism was one of his practiced facial expressions.

"I wouldn't say that." I pursed my lips thoughtfully. "Cartagena has some semblance of order with C-Pat, where Tortuga has none. Omega isn't complete anarchy. Aria T'Loak runs the show here."

"Who?"

"Omega's de facto ruler. So long as you don't cross her, you have nothing to worry about."

"De facto, huh?" He scoffed. "How does she keep a reign on things?"

"Her own private army and network of informants. They keep the Blue Suns, Eclipse, and Blood Pack in check."

_But I doubt she knows who the Blue Suns are working for, _I added silently in the presence of so many others left on a need to know basis.

"Does Cerberus interact with her much?" Jacob pegged me with a sharp glance.

I would eventually find the prospect of Cerberus' interference with Aria T'Loak rather ironic. But at the time, Cerberus and myself were so compartmentalized, I was certain I was correct when I told Jacob, "We tend to stay out of each other's way."

My attention shifted back to my pilots when a green flash erupted from _Venatrix's_ navigational panel, signaling a desire from Omega's traffic control to hail us.

I exchanged a brief, knowing glance with my pilot, and he nodded obediently, tapping me into Omega's current traffic communications.

The voice on the other end of the line was surprisingly human. "Attention, _Venatrix_. This is Omega Control. You've entered designated flight space. Do you intend to dock?"

_Venatrix_ was a private vessel as far as registration went. So was all other company owned property. There were no painfully obvious means of honest identification aboard, no insignias plastered to our operatives' chests, and certainly no calling cards left behind once a job was completed. Cerberus operated in silence, hidden in plain sight, only made known to our sponsors and members.

To have our presence made known on Omega at that point in time- or anywhere for that matter- was certainly undesirable. Most people, even outlaws, don't tend to care for terrorists. But, Afterlife was readily accessible to anyone with enough interest.

"Copy that Omega Control, this is _Venatrix_." I responded as I continued to traverse through other communications. "Requesting docking clearance in Gozu District for a thirty-three meter yacht."

Surprisingly, imbedding oneself into the network of the Terminus' capitol proved exceedingly more difficult than doing so on the Citadel. After all, the only firewalls I had to bypass there were those of C-Sec or the Alliance. It was child's play to go undetected aboard the more upscale station.

On Omega, however, there was hardly any way of feigning an added presence in traffic control's current database. To search for any outgoing or incoming transmissions with Liara T'Soni, I had to hack like a ghost during only the small frame of time the operator remained in communication with _Venatrix._

"One moment." There was a lingering pause as the flight traffic controller scrolled through a list of available slips.

_Venatrix_ lingered idly, small mass effect core still thrumming two decks below, prepared to pounce at a moments notice. It wasn't unusual for a corvette of _Venatrix's _size to request a marina amongst the towers, but the industrial docking bays frequented by traders, pirates, and slavers were certainly a more common request.

I glared steadily at the navigational board, confident the Omega worker would not detect my sweep.

_'__Jarutha requesting clearance for industrial district.' Drug smugglers._

_'__Ottowa requesting clearance for Kokomo Plaza.' Traders._

_'__Zyphr requesting clearance for Gozu District.' Partyers._

My results were empty. No sign of Liara T'Soni, or the Blue Suns.

And just in time, I was reminded that if Omega was good at one thing, it was making sure they received their money. "Alright, _Venatrix. _You are cleared to proceed to dock G75. Docking fees are eight credits a meter for one galactic standard day, and will be collected upon arrival."

_Good, _I decided. _We're ahead of schedule._

The moment _Venatrix _was docked and locked down behind us, we made haste into the streets of Omega, dressed and prepped for the occasion. My four shock troopers, adorned in heavy silver and white armor and gunned to the teeth, casually dispersed themselves into the crowd. They slunk back only far enough to keep a steady eye on me as I parted the Red Sea of people with Jacob on the way to Afterlife's front entrance. One even opened up a pack of cigarettes, loitering like any other mercenary for hire.

In stark contrast to their gruff and overtly aggressive appearance, Jacob and I had taken a more subtle approach to impressing upon the pernicious in Cerberus-issued black body suits. I would have worn white had I not been weary of Omega defiling my preferred ensemble. The mesh fibers sewn into the fabric our clothes were just as impenetrable as Rosenkov Material's light Titan armor. Petrovsky's trusted M-3 Predator was strapped to my hip, and my recently reacquired batarian clip point nearly ran the length of my opposite thigh in its sheath.

Jacob's stoic almond eyes took note of my new accessory, but he refrained from asking. Instead, he wondered, "So how are we going to intercept T'Soni?"

"Easy," I muttered, parrying an Englishman's headlong collision course with a seething gaze. "_You're _going to follow her."

We halted a corner shy of Afterlife's front entrance. Beneath the soles of my boots and genetically enhanced perception of touch, the filthy metal ground pulsed in sync with muted, kaleidoscopic rhythms pounding from within. Though the horde of travelers made the steps difficult to distinguish, there was a clear line forming outside the door. If Jacob exuded the proper foreboding attitude, he could breeze straight through.

"I don't know Omega, Miranda."

I wasn't sure why Jacob felt the need to remind me of his lack of travels amongst the extraterrestrials. But if he was attempting to have me follow T'Soni with him instead of head her off, he was sorely mistaken. Not only did I want to avoid being spotted by Aria T'Loak, who's memory would have had to have been inherited from an elephant to recall someone she had met once many years ago- I needed to be sure I was the one meeting T'Soni on the other side of this assignment.

I scowled at this evening's patrons, bouncing back and forth on their feet, bored beneath the fuchsia neon lights- probably the most luminous on the entire station. "Keep in radio contact, feed me intel: When she arrives, what she's doing, wearing, who she's talking to, where she's going. Trail behind her, and we'll cover the entrances to flank her. If her contact works for who I think he does, and Shepard's body is still here on the station, he'll lead her away, distract her."

"What are you planning to do with her contact?" He asked with a suspiciously raised eyebrow, eyes glancing down at my combat knife for only an instant.

I matched his expression with vigor. "See what he knows."

Resolutely but still unsure, Jacob accepted my answer my answer with a sour nod. The marine been wary of the deceitfully restful dagger attached to my hip ever since our detour to Lorek. Or, maybe, it was me.

Jacob took advantage of our pause. "You never told me why you kept that thing? Doesn't Cerberus give us plenty of gear?"

_Snow, sprinkling lightly like powdered sugar, is a constant on Anhur. Skies above are overcast and dreary. At least the bits I can see through the tops of the trees. The wind nips at the tips of my ears and nose, but my thermal suit keeps me insulated. Barely. _

_My white clothes- meant to camouflage me against the foreign silvery fauna of Anhur's woodlands- are tattering and burnt. We're running too low on supplies to solve that problem, let alone survive until next week. By necessity, I'm new to working this gritty type of field operation, and it frustrates me. This morning there were hardly any provisions awaiting us at our station. Our delivery for restock has lost touch, fallen off the radar, and is assumed MIA. Instead, we obtain five extra pieces of precious cargo to bring to safety, taking our party to a grand total of twenty-seven guides and runaway slaves. _

_Three of them are frightened, exhausted children huddled together around the flickering source of heat we can afford them as we're forced to skulk amongst the trees. I'm repulsed by the lack of prosperity on this world. Even amongst such a technologically advanced galaxy, the rural areas of backwater colonies feel no different than Earth's nineteenth century. Their coats are tattered and their faces are sooty. Orphans probably. No one really knows. They refuse to divulge much information about themselves. _

_The most outgoing of their band is a small girl with freckles, wide emerald eyes, and pigtails the color of sunlit straw, and she's been instructed by the elder and more stoic of two batarian boys, firmly grasping her hand, to remain silent. I feel a pang in my chest. She can be no older than Oriana. While she beams widely and dotes upon the smaller male, stroking his bulbous baldhead as he shivers and squeezes his four eyes tightly shut, the eldest leers suspiciously with the instinct to protect even though he has no weapon or biotic power to do so. _

_I find the interaction puzzling, and wonder why they've chosen one another, what possessed the eldest to not abandon the girl- so different and alien- to save himself and his brother. But then he offers the toe headed child his best needle-toothed grin and a scrap of the ration pack we procured for him, and I begin to understand. I mean to look away before they catch me staring, but not before Sigrun Krobak shakes her ridged head and redirects the crunch of my footsteps against the crystalized water fragments._

_"__Give it them," She instructs with hard midnight eyes, rewiring the net she is capable of projecting from her omni-tool._

_"__They're children," I protest._

_"__All the better," She disagrees._

_I huff in agitation, but her persistence is compelling. Favor for a favor, I guess as my resolve gives way and I procure the crescent tipped dagger Sigrun had gifted me from the sheath on my hip. I lay the smooth, uneven blade across the flats of my gloved palms with a dour expression and offer it to the bristling adolescent._

_"__Here," I instruct flatly, extending to handle to the boy. He stares at me with four suspicious eyes. Beside him the girl's eyes widen, startled by the weapon, but I can't look at her without seeing wide blue eyes and raven hair. "You might need this. Keep them safe."_

Almost reflexively, I dispelled Jacob's attempt of small talk. "I don't owe you an explanation, Mr. Taylor."

He snapped back, recoiling in offense as though I slapped him, and something like guilt dissuaded my inner thoughts. My cool exterior melted for only a second, and I tried to portray an ounce of an apology with my expression.

"Jacob…" I let his name linger in the air for a moment, unsure how to amend his personal feelings. But they were not my problem, and he was a grown-up. He could deal with the sour taste I left in his mouth on his own. My voice was slightly less icy. "We don't have time, okay?"

Brown eyes lit up. Jacob's dejected aura evaporated like ice in the Sahara. He nodded in understanding.

_Why did I say that? _I reprimanded myself for giving him the wrong impression._ He's just going to think we'll talk about it later._

"Alright." He spoke with no signs of squandered resolve. "Well, how will I recognize Liara T'Soni?"

"For starters, she's an asari maiden. A native to Armali on Thessia, so she'll be speaking Lingua." I took the opportunity to sneer at anyone lingering too close to us. Thankfully, most people on Omega "I'm guessing she _won't _be dressed like a stripper, or really any of this evening's attendees. She'll likely be carrying a weapon, probably armored. Her body language may prove she's uncomfortable to be inside the venue."

Taylor tilted his head to the side questioningly.

"She's a _scientist_. How many professionally educated individuals do you honestly think you'll find snooping around the bar here?" I said, tilting my head towards the seedy nightclub. "But more importantly, look for her contact. Unless _Feron _is a permissive hanar rebelling against face name tradition, I'm assuming we're looking for a drell."

"Yeah," He agreed, scanning the horde of avid clubbers. "There aren't many of those outside of Kahje, or any hanar space."

I gave him a wry expression. "Then your task should be simple. Just be sure to keep up."

I was correct of course. Jacob's duty was a no-brainer, and he had absolutely no trouble in spotting a cloaked figure with very drell features whispering across the bar from a young asari. The pair exited the nightclub's main entrance at a brisk pace, Taylor several inconspicuous yards behind them. Turned right, and marched towards the lesser populated industrial area.

Split into two teams, my troopers and I flanked them through parallel alleys, streets, and walkways of varying elevation. Guns at the ready, my snipers took to the catwalks on their starboard side, while the rest of us traveled port on even ground, with Jacob taking point. Separated and hidden by meters, sometimes structures, fences, and shadows, we tailed them through a labyrinth of a vacant, run down manufacturing neighborhood.

Hiding from a target on Omega is simple. The constant reddish 'dark room' effect of the lighting, lifeless bulkheads, and numerous passageways leave plenty of nooks and crannies to conceal yourself in. But, sometimes those same passageways could be a detriment against a slippery assailant. Thankfully, most of my escort was smooth enough to play a successful game of cat and mouse with an agent of the Shadow Broker.

Or so I thought.

Suddenly, I came to regret Jacob's heavy foot as the wiry, taller figure spun, gripped the smaller, more feminine silhouette by the arm and dragged her back into a narrow space between two factories.

At any point we were blinded, I radioed in to be sure there were eyes on the target at all times. Now, it was urgent.

"Sound off if they're in your sights," I ordered when my group lost visual.

"This is Echo One and Two. We have a visual on the target."

"Jacob?"

"Negative. I can't see them right now, but…"

"Blue Suns!" As muffled as the scream was, my translator was hardly faulty when it came to deciphering the rare drell dialects.

And then a pop, like rocks pounding against a tin metal roof, split the artificial air.

My team bolted forwards, searching for another alleyway into the street on our right. Our choice was tactical- a road block for any escapees, a point of concealment from outside view, and a great place to monitor a practically empty road from a safe distance. Well, empty aside from the tussle between blue-armored mercenaries and a pair of unusual treasure hunters.

And a krogan with a heavy pistol pressed to T'Soni's temple.

The asari froze, simmering in a blue-white fire.

"Watch, those biotics, asari." The hulking reptile snarled, drawing up his large hump in a very krogan show of self-righteousness. "You so much as crackle any bluer, and you'll have more gauges in that pretty head of yours than you did the day you were born."

My hand went straight to ear. "Echo One and Two, do you have the krogan in your crosshairs?"

I received an immediate reply from my balcony team, "Yes, ma'am."

"On my mark, open fire."

T'Soni's biotics faded away as two more gangsters moved in to seize her arms. Though the thugs obscured my complete of view her, I could see her blue fists ball in anger behind her back. And she glared upwards in a fairly defiant manner for an asari. Not two yards behind her, her friend had nearly ceased his struggles against his own captors.

"You came a long way to the capitol of the Terminus looking for a dead man," The krogan loomed ominously inside Liara's personal boundary- exuding an arrogance not uncommon amongst the powerful warlords of his species. "The Shadow Broker wants to know why."

That was all I needed to know to be sure Shepard's body had yet to part ways between the Blue Suns and the Shadow Broker. They were trying to cut off T'Soni's trail before she could dig up another dead body.

I radioed back in. "Echo Two, target the merc holding T'Soni."

"My intentions are my own business," Liara T'Soni snarled in an airy voice. Her soft pitch, almost like that of a voice enraptured in a dream a tad too long, was resolute and surprisingly bordering fearsome. Almost. "Certainly not some half-witted gangster, and especially not an elusive information trader!"

_Brave girl, _I commended.

"Everything is my business, lady," The bulky biped boasted. "Especially this. Shepard's a hot commodity. Now talk, before I-"

"Fire," I drawled from a safe distance.

The krogan's head exploded.

One of the mercenaries screamed, and the street descended into madness. One by one, exposed and vulnerable in their artificial valley, the Blue Suns fell, aimlessly firing at the mystery snipers. A third set of opposing bombardment led me to believe Jacob had joined the fight.

"Feron, move!" The asari cried, flinging herself and her companion from harms way with a sapphire incentive. "Which way?"

"Just away!" The drell panted, rounding the bend my team and I had slid behind. The one we currently blocked any further access to. "Maybe this way."

Two figures came to a sudden abrupt a halt at the sight of two well armed troopers blocking their path, almost tripping over their own feet in the process. Their large, alien eyes grew round as saucers.

The drell's colorful reptilian head crests widened, gaping like a fish. He visibly swallowed and his raspy voice became small, "Or maybe not."

"No need to be alarmed, drell." I stalked forwards with my perfectly executed heel to toe stride. My head held high, brows arched superiorly, a slight smirk teased one side of my mouth. I imagine if Shepard's life was ever to be reimagined for vid by his sympathizers and worshippers, this appearance of mine would be the closing scene of the first film. His complicated and lethal love interest, cold, brilliant, beautiful, and devoted to the organization she had devoted a majority of her life to, slinking from the shadows of the galaxy's hellhole to join the quest to recover her future lover's body from Death's lustful grasp. "We're all on the same team today. There's a Spectre's body in need of recovering."

The moment she saw me, the only female human of the group and the closest in appearance to her own species, the asari tread forwards on light feet as though the soles of her boots rarely grazed the ground at all. Her voice was delicate but firm. "Who are you?"

For the first time in my life I got a decent personal view of Liara T'Soni.

About half a head shorter than myself, her minute scales the color of the ever-paling skies above Lake Mungo in the Outback- another pristine location my father could have disposed of me. Hairless with six crests crowning the top of her head. The colors of her wide asari eyes, slightly larger and rounder than those of a human's, matched. Two thin lines with stark resemblance to eyebrows, and several speckles running across her cheeks were the only facial markings I could find. If not for my slightly prejudiced opinion that most citizens of the Asari Republics favored themselves quite nicely, I found her very pretty.

"My name is Miranda Lawson, and I represent an agency that firmly believes in Shepard's cause," I began my introduction before feeding the archaeologist a line. "For humanity _and_ the galaxy as a whole."

"For humanity…" I watched Liara start to connect the dots. Her clever eyes ran over the lot of us, taking in our weapons and distict lack of insignias, before lighting up with apprehension, "Wait. You're not with the Alliance, are you?"

"No," I confessed. "The Alliance has given up on Shepard. They're willing to sell him short, and obliterate any trace of the work he's done recently. Work you assisted him with, Doctor. We'd like to help him continue."

Liara bristled. "But Shepard is _dead_."

"Rumor has it, yes. But, Shepard's beaten the odds numerous times over. After all, isn't that why you came here, Liara? Because you believe in him?"

T'Soni's facial expression hung somewhere between wounded and skeptical. I understood. She was just beginning to grieve. Asari had always been a breeze for me to read. Alien, but human enough to seem familiar. "I came here because Shepard is…_was_ my friend."

"Still _is, _Liara. My people and I may have a way to be sure of that," I corrected cryptically, rounding on my heel, and gesturing for the pair to follow me from the bowels of Omega's abandoned industrial district. "Now, we really should be going."

"Wait!" Liara called, taking two steps forward with an outstretched hand as though she considered catching me. Something in my eyes caused her pause, and she withdrew slightly, gaze still steely. She squared her shoulders. "What are you talking about?"

I glanced around at my detail with my peripherals. Though they minded their business, there were still classified details to this assignment that were not quite in the range of thei security clearance. So I told her simply, "Restoration."

"That's impossible," Feron spat contemptuously, intruding into our conversation before Liara had the opportunity to respond. "No one can bring back the dead. It's just fact."

Suppressing a sigh of impatience, I made an about face at the end of the catwalk, scanning the entire area for signs of more assailants. The probability of a second squad of mercs arriving was so likely, the prospect of not being several steps ahead when I very well could have been was suffocating.

I glared at the drell.

"For every fact there is an _infinity_ of hypotheses. And my hypothesis: You're wrong." I countered before turning my attention back to Liara.

The asari's brow was furrowed in thought. The prospect of resurrection must have been tantalizing for the mind of a fellow thinker, but very conflicting with commonly held beliefs. I knew so from personal experience.

"How would…" Her question trailed off when she caught sight of her companion's disapproving shake of the head. "It does seem a little farfetched. Any project to attempt to bring back the dead would be an immense undertaking. It would take years... If it were even possible."

"Only a matter of resources."

"Resources?" TSoni echoed with a mildly amused laugh. "Oh, you must be joking. I can't think of anyone that has the money, or time, or space."

I nearly smiled, but years of stoicism kept the indication from manifesting. "We'll bring in the best team possible: Neurophysiologists, ophthalmologists, pulmonologists, cardiologists, any specialist you can think of. We'll have the best equipment: Nerve-stems, neuro-charters, life support. Whatever I need to get the job done, I will have."

"The only organization I could stand to think of that would ever dedicate so much enthusiasm to such unconventional progression would be…"

Her eyes grew wide as she trailed off, and she stared at me. Not with fear, but awe and bewilderment.

"It's alright." I allowed my features to soften ever so slightly. Just enough to convey sympathy, however much of it was sincere. "Binthu was unfortunate, but I assure you, I had nothing to do with Admiral Kohoku's passing."

"…Cerberus," She released the breath she had been holding.

"Very good, Doctor," I applauded dryly, barriers fully reestablished. "I see your time away from digging in the sand has yet to impair your critical thinking skills. Now come on, I've got someone who would like to speak with you."

"Hold on, Liara." The drell ordered, defiantly standing fast, leaving himself in my wake. "Isn't Cerberus some human-supremacist, hate group? Why the hell should we follow them? For all you know, they could just get their kicks by throwing us aliens out some airlock."

If my eyes could have rolled any further, they'd have been lodged in my frontal lobe. Behind me, one of my troopers even made a choking sound of laughter. Thankfully, the asari seemed to disagree with her informant, and matched me step for step on our return trip to _Venatrix._

"I'd hardly call them a hate group, Feron." She gave my team a once over, and stared steadily into my eyes. "Maybe a tad eccentric and unorthodox…But they do seem to want to get Shepard back. Or, am I mistaken?"

"We're on the same page," I reassured, weaving my way into the cesspool of stench, iron walls, and dark red lighting. Somewhere in the dark, Jacob and my snipers moved about.

Grumbling under his breath, Feron broke into a canter to reach us. Even as we lurked from the manufacturing district, as he stood in the protective radius of my troopers, he tried to establish his case against Cerberus. "Because Shepard is _human_, Liara. The first _human _Spectre. The man that got them the seat on the Council. Would Cerberus weep if Shepard were a dead hanar, or a _krogan… _like the one they just used as target practice?"

"That's hardly fair, Feron," Liara rebuked him at once. Catching note of my raised eyebrows she added an addendum. Her faith in her rescuers was still conditional. "Those Suns would have killed us. We're lucky to have come out of that alive."

Feron's temper diffused, but he nevertheless glared at me as he asked T'Soni, "How do you know we can trust these _listims_?"

Drell not being a language I had bothered studying, I did find some difficulty in rendering phrases that fell through my translator. I believed _listims _loosely translated to _traitorous_ _bandits_. No matter the insult, I was left unfazed.

_How hypocritical. _I gave Feron a hard, unforgiving stare. "If you'd like to wait around here all day for the next group of Blue Suns, be my guest. Otherwise, follow us, drell. We're not being picky today."

Feron harrumphed in agitation and folded his arms across his chest like an impertinent child. Despite the indiscernible expression on his scaly, reptilian face, his tone and body language certainly _seemed _frazzled. Especially when an almost an involuntary snigger wormed its way across T'Soni's face.

* * *

><p>"At first, I thought I'd be friends with anyone looking for Shepard," Liara admitted. Her blues grew sharp as she stared the Illusive Man down. "But now I'm not so sure. Why is Cerberus looking for him? He can't be anything more than a corpse."<p>

"Possibly," I acknowledged, stepping into the conversation. "But those Blue Suns certainly were trying to keep you away from him. Which leads me to believe the body is still on the station."

We stood side by side in the center of a black circle inside the QEC room aboard _Venatrix_. Outside in the lobby, Feron waited begrudgingly under Jacob's supervision. A bright white light outlined the place where holo-emitters transferred our images to Cronos Station, and vice-versa. Front and center, my boss sat surrounded by holographic display panels in a leather chair, classically silhouetted against a decaying star with the panorama windows.

Initially disconcerted by his glowing blue eyes, Liara now stood resolute. A hard glare had welded its way across her expression and her shoulders were squared away, glancing halfway over her shoulder as though to turn away at any moment. My own hands were folded neatly behind my back, a pair of data-pads grasped firmly in my palm as I actively observed the scene play out before me.

"Miranda has a good point." The Illusive Man tapped his ashes into the tray in his armrest, referring to the incident on Binthu. "Our past differences aside, Doctor, Shepard is incredibly valuable to the human race. And while I don't expect you to understand all of our customs- even those involving the deceased- we do have one _very_ important reason to get to Shepard first: The person that sent those mercs after you, the one that hired the Blue Suns to hold Shepard's body, is the Shadow Broker. And he, or she, or they have made a deal with the Collectors."

Shock resonated from Liara's expression and she visibly became regaled by the same dilemma I had been. Her voice went up in pitch. "The Collectors?! Why would they want Shepard?"

The embers on the end of the Illusive Man's cigarette glowed red as he inhaled on the tobacco stick. His eyes darted upwards piercingly. "That's something we'd like you to find out…But we have our suspicions."

Liara blinked heavily, and glanced in my direction. Her voice was low as she whispered to me, "The Reapers?"

I nodded solemnly.

"Why me?" The asari wondered as her blue eye struck mine, gesturing towards me. "Why not Miranda?"

My ears perked in interest, but I gave no indication across my face, keeping a stony expression.

My boss stared with a confident smile. "Operative Lawson has her own important part to play. I believed she mentioned-"

"Bringing the commander back?" Liara interrupted. "Yes, she mentioned that, but resurrection is-"

"Impossible?" I asked, standing up a bit straighter. "The technology Cerberus and our associates have developed indicates otherwise. It will be a tedious, strenuous project, but I believe it will be possible to rejuvenate the Commander…in whatever state he may be currently be in."

The Illusive Man scrutinized me 2.4 seconds longer than normal. If I were anyone else, the man's intense artificial gaze would have had me quivering in my boots. But I was Miranda Lawson, his most trusted and successful operative. I was a power, a mind not to be trifled with, and I possessed an intelligence that easily matched his own.

Then he nodded, so subtly I doubt Liara ever notice. His decision was final. "Operative Lawson will direct and head the project we're devoting to Commander Shepard. She will oversee his progression, and manage the numerous resources I am willing to dedicate to the attempt. She will also act as your personal liaison throughout your search, and provide you with any necessary compensation for expenses along the way. You can rely on her expertise."

My mind took 1.34 seconds longer than usual to process the responsibility that had just been placed so resolutely on my shoulders. I had already known my duty would be dedicated to the commander's revival, but exact assignment had been unclear up until this point. His decision seemed so blasé and impromptu, yet I knew that his resolution had been anything but. Illusive Man had tirelessly weighed his options, deciphered the meticulous pros and cons of the operatives he could have charged with heading Cerberus' newest cell.

And he had chosen me to lead the project. I, his top agent, was to be his right hand. The magnitude of my responsibility settled straight into my thoughts, and I embraced it with vigor. I locked eyes with the Illusive Man, one of two people I had ever tried to live up to.

_I won't let you down, sir, _I would have said if only it had been him and I inside the QEC.

I believe he understood. His attention returned to Liara as he stood up from his chair, wandered towards our holographic images, and halted mere meters from us. "What about you, Doctor? Can Cerberus rely on you?"

Her gaze lingered on me and I found something akin to trust in their glossy depths. But when she turned back to the Illusive Man they were cold and indiscernible. "No…But Shepard can."

**_Monday, May 5, 2183 / {TOP SECRET LOCATION} Lazarus Station, Dark Space, Horsehead Nebula, Earth Systems Alliance Space / 3 years, 18 days Pre Reaper invasion of Earth_**

According to several members of my staff from the United North American States, the day Liara T'Soni arrived with Shepard's body was a holiday. Not one I had ever celebrated. Truthfully, I never really celebrated anything. When I had been a child, Father pretended my birthday was an extravagant affair for his friends, and he cajoled me into attending some of the holiday parties where his entrepreneurial associates sought after me and the business arrangements I presented with drooping tongues and eager hands. So I suppose it was a plausible belief that holidays and the like left a bitter taste in my mouth.

Stringent decorations were things I tended to shy away from. Especially when I had a job to accomplish. I had no time for petty informalities. There were medical histories to be obtained, dossiers, and resumes to review on both my staff and future project. Payrolls, housing, and boarding expectations were in need of projecting. Medical, technical, and prototype supplies were to be double checked on maintenance and productivity. So, I had limited festivities in the workplace to bar none.

There were of course ornamentations strung up in break rooms, living areas, and the mess hall. Not my doing, but I had _begrudgingly _allowed it…so long as there was no interference with actual duties. There was no interference per say, but that early evening there was a slight _delay_ because of them.

_Ping!_

I was buried neck-deep in data-pads when a sudden alert sounded from my terminal, ignoring the monitors portraying a cheerful group of off-duty security officers in the mess. The sender information was encrypted and there was no subject. My thoughts ran straight to the scientist I had hired. There had been a lack of communication for nearly a week. I opened the email immediately.

_'__I have him. ETA 20 minutes._

_'-LT'_

Except for my chief tech, Doctor Andrew Wilson, four EMTs, and Jacob's small security squad, I paged my entire, on-call lead medical staff with instructions to rendezvous on stand by in the emergency surgical bay. I instructed the latter to meet me down in docking bay A3 expeditiously, and I careened out of my office.

Though Lazarus Station itself was not my only facility for the aptly named Lazarus Project, it was where a hefty percentage of supplies, surgical labs, and intensive care units were located. The walls of the clearly gridded map were an immaculate sterile white with dark gold trimming, the polished tiles of the floor were slate gray, and the freshly recycled oxygen smelled fresh. The sixty-five full time staff members currently on board were invigorated and lively. Especially the groups I passed as I stalked through the gangways, eating dinner and listening to what could only be mariachi.

Their behavior was a stark contrast from that of Liara T'Soni's.

She emerged from the loading ramp with a sealed, human-sized life support container drifting slowly in front of her. She was down a teammate, the drell completely absent, and from the look of her I knew the separation had been rather impromptu and drastic. The armor Liara had worn a week ago was scratched and new abrasions had etched themselves across her exposed skin. My technicians and security swarmed her and the unknown vessel the moment the hangar bay doors closed, collecting the pod and whisking it away to the surgical bay so the asari would no longer have to stare at the stasis container with dead, listless eyes.

I lingered only momentarily to watch two of the emergency medical techs run omni scans over Liara- who had been coerced off her feet for what I assumed to be exhaustion, shock, and dehydration. And to place a reassuring hand on her shoulder.

"Shepard obviously made some very good friends." I told her, allowing a flicker of respect to shine in my eyes. "You should know that I'm glad Cerberus put our faith in you. You've done a lot, and now it's our turn."

The vibrant blue of her scales had faded, and dark circles rimmed beneath her eyes, but she acknowledged me with a small pat and a slight smile that did not quite reach her eyes.

"Make sure she's properly accommodated," I ordered, turning my head sharply towards the detail surrounding her. Jacob, and most of his squad had escorted the still unidentified body back through the station. I gave the asari a distinct nod. "I'll meet up with you later."

* * *

><p>The first thing I noticed when I reached the med lab a full 87.3 seconds behind Jacob, Wilson, and their teams, was how visibly shaken they all were. More than five of them had already succumbed to a case of dry heaves, but only two needed to find the loo. Thankfully, they both made it without causing a mess on my floor. Only four doctors were capable of working vigorously around the table, while two shakily prepped a rejuvenation tank. Even Jacob, whose complexion was always a rich chocolate, had turned white as a sheet.<p>

As I lurked past, he caught my gaze with dilated ambers, shook his head, and mumbled, "Nothing but meat and tubes."

I was repulsed by their reactions. For these were supposed to be amongst the most brilliant minds in the galaxy. The doctors and scientists that pushed the boundaries of experimentation and implementation. The soldiers that had seen their share of mutilated corpses. I found them weak, but I said nothing to express such feelings. Maybe it was a moral compass kicking in, the one that told them they were going to conquer death. The death of beloved war hero that so many wrote home about.

The second thing that caught my eye was literally just that: A thing.

It was certainly not human in appearance, and no sentient- even the ones that found humans aesthetically repulsive- would have confused it for one. The naked slab of charred flesh, bone, and tendons that had been kept preserved by a malfunctioning pod was now placed squarely on an operating table. The flesh and muscle of the left leg had been sheared away about mid-calf, exposing a jagged black bone. More broken and mutilated appendages tore through what shat should have been skin, but appeared more like seared rubber. The body was contracted and mutilated beyond visual recognition of male or female. The relatively handsome face I had seen on vid casts was hardly in existence apart from shredded and frozen tissue. His classically angled nose was gone, but his eyeballs remained. Those magnificent, brightly colored eyes that I would one day find myself so madly in love with were sunken, vacant, and coated in a milky white haze. This was not a human.

And I was convinced I felt _nothing_.

Nothing for the ones who grieved him. Nothing for my team who still shivered in revulsion. Nothing apart from the paradoxical frustration over the fact that the damage was far worse than we had originally predicted, and the intrigued anticipation for an upcoming challenge.

"Well?" I asked through my mask as I concluded my own examination of the corpse

We would need to repair the internal damage first, specifically restart his circulatory system. Albeit, he was probably in need of several new organs. The rejuvenation tanks would sustain his exterior as bacta serum poured living bacteria from his own DNA back into his body.

_Yes, this will work, _I decided.

Wilson perked his head up from the DNA scanners while I removed my soiled gloves and mask, throwing them into the bin and washing my hands. He nodded once. "It's him."

"Very well." Relief settled in my chest, and my eyes ran across the others still debating with their gag reflexes. Under my cool gaze, the thirteen doctors and the sentry guarding the door stood up a bit straighter. I addressed each of them as I spoke. "Commander Shepard has been recovered. The Lazarus Project will proceed as planned."

* * *

><p><strong>AN: **Finally!

Nursing school has been a real pain in my 'poorly-chosen-camera-angle.' Plus, my cousin moved this weekend, so ugh. Sorry for the delay guys!

But, hey look! Shepard! and Liara! and DEAD SHEPARD!

I hope it was worth the wait. Gosh I'm tired. I'll start back up on reading everyone else's fanfictions tomorrow when I can read and type and not have it come out looking like thhihhhss.

Thanks everyone who faved/followed/reviewed last chapter! It meant a lot! You readers are awesome, and I'm glad to know that you guys enjoy what I write. Have an amazing day/morning/night/whatever the hell time it is where you live!


	13. Lazarus Years Pt8 El'azar Sleeps

**Pt. 8 El'azar Sleeps**

****_{TOP SECRET LOCATION} Lazarus Station, Dark Space, Horsehead Nebula, Earth Systems Alliance Space_****

For anyone under the false impression that restoring full functionality to a deceased and damaged body merely takes ten kilos of medi-gel and _throwing the switch_, you are sorely mistaken. Nor does piecing back together what was once a human involve grave robbing, or mystical incantations.

On the contrary, recreating life is a _tedious_- and I mostly stress the word for chronology's sake…mostly- team effort.

Firstly, rebuilding a walking, talking, intelligent, mildly attractive human being from the ground up without substituting him for a high tech Virtual Intelligence is a _very _expensive undertaking. About 4.532 billion credits expensive to be a bit more precise. Split between the salaries of sixty-five full time staff members- including myself, quality provisions and kitchen staff, activities available for employees on their off hours, basic maintenance and amenities to sustain a station's population such as housing and laundry, engineering in spite of VI regulation, security mechs and precautions, not to mention the obscene amount of medical supplies and treatment- both for staff and the project.

Which brings me to my second point.

While I'm sure every race could vouch for the same acknowledgment, the human body is nothing less than an incredibly complex, well-maintained machine- if it works properly. Even when the basic unit of life is something as simple as a cell- which, mind you, is not all that simple. A cell's main purpose is to reproduce and replicate the DNA stored inside- for however long the telomeres allow. My own for instance, replicate very slowly and decrease my aging drastically…for a human.

But I digress.

Scouring Shepard's mutilated corpse for any and every salvageable cell that had not been exposed to heavy bouts of vacuum, blunt force trauma, and every degree of burn was not too much trouble. But recreating those eleven vital systems those cells composed was. Because each and every system interacts with one another. So it wasn't simply a matter of completing one section and moving onto another. Everything integral had to be covered within a relatively similar time period.

For example, while the heart's main purpose may be to pump blood to the arteries and through the veins, blood also caries carries oxygen from the lungs and carbon dioxide back out. Blood pumping requires a waste filter through a functional renal system as it transports electrolytes and antibodies that fight infection. In turn, the skin is the first measure of defense. But when the epidermis is covered in lacerations and charred like steak left a bit too long on a barbie, the defensive mechanism is basically rendered useless. Not to mention all potential hemorrhage points that needed closing once blood was beginning to pump again. After all, letting the commander bleed out before he was even completely alive would have put us back several weeks.

As it was, for one year, eleven months, and eighteen days Project Lazarus trudged onwards with one goal in mind.

For one year, eleven months, and eighteen days I directed and accomplished the most substantial scientific effort Cerberus and humanity- no, the galaxy- had ever seen.

And by the end of that one year, eleven months, and eighteen days I had brought back to life the one man potentially capable and sincere enough to rally a divided galaxy together to make a stand against a force that could and would obliterate all of our culture, history and existence if given the opportunity. A man that saw a threat to everything he knew and was supposedly willing to stand in its way. A feat I highly doubted simply anyone had ever, or would ever, be able to accomplish.

Including the Alliance's poster child, Lieutenant-Commander Ernest James Shepard.

At least initially.

After all, the day he was brought to me, he was little more than tendrils of organic material hanging from shattered and broken bone. Which is in no way meant to imply that I had severe doubt about my resources' and my own ability to restore his body to at least some semblance of good health, and my determination to make sure his condition was impeccable. If he was anything less than what he had been before he died, Lazarus would have been a failure. I do not willingly fail.

The fact of the matter was that Shepard- for all I had deduced up until the beginning of Lazarus- was simply a man who had earned the keen attention and respect of humanity after surviving the slaughter of Akuze. A man who had been handpicked by Alliance Brass as their first Spectre- a prime example of our species' perseverance- inspired his followers to stand by his side, and headed the battle against Sovereign, Saren, and their geth. And now I was reassured of our limiting mortality as that same great man civilization cheered on as the Savior of the Citadel, lay dead on an operating table beneath blinding, light emitting diodes and the hands of a surgical crew.

The first of which I allowed to remove his corpse from the stasis tank, after most of the irreparable tissue had been sheared away and the damaged matter had been germinated with surviving copies of his own DNA to synthesize ribonucleic acid, were the cardiopulmonary teams. Despite being clinically brain dead with a complete lack of cognitive awareness and neural functions- so long as blood and oxygen ran through his veins several of his major organs could be easily fooled into functioning with a few additional incentives.

Nevertheless, progress was slow. Especially in the beginning when many of my staff had not quite made peace with their deities for traversing into what some whispered was '_heretical' _science. I heard '_horrific' _and the notion of _'playing god' _tossed around more than once. And the first time I heard their whispers, I nearly scoffed in scornful laughter, masking the reaction away as a fit of coughs.

The Illusive Man and I had handpicked them each from a list of the best and brightest. Many had spent their lives advocating the progression of science. Some had remolded faces of soldiers mutilated at Shanxi, while others had attended to the organs of victims of chemical exposure. Even still there were those that had questionably prodded away and poked eezo nodules into the underdeveloped somatic nervous systems of test tube embryos- like my sister and myself.

These scientists had created life from stem cells, and a few had even taken it away. So the fact that many could hardly stand to operate on Shepard without any sign of disgust, or horror was disappointing. Certainly not surprising, but still disappointing.

But I wouldn't stir the pot. Even though my disenchantment was buried just beneath the surface in all of my interactions with them. There was no need for rustling feathers so long as they could swallow their assigned tasks, and follow direction. Because while few offered to babysit the corpse of a fallen hero, each was useful and qualified in their own specialization. I had made sure of it.

And the truth of the matter was, we weren't radicals rewriting moral law. If they were bludgers who could not or did not contribute to our creative efforts, follow simple direction, or were too fearful to interact with a mound of tissue, they would be dismissed. None were willing to take that risk. Not with the salaries the Illusive Man dished out. There was just something about the project's implementation that caused my religious and non-religious staff to pull out their prayer beads, and swear to a god I wasn't sure existed.

_Lazarus is dead. And I am glad for your sakes that I was not there, that you may believe. Nevertheless let us go to him._

A fortnight after Liara's departure from Lazarus, Shepard's heart beat. Mechanically, of course. Tubes and wires were attached to his temporary airways, and what could have once been an arm, for dialysis. There were still no brain waves. His heart moved to its own spirometer, timed by implants and the first ragged rise and fall of what could have only been described as his chest. And from that point onwards the heart monitor beeped away with steady accuracy, creating a constant rhythmic lull of beeps, decompression, and low whistling to the atmosphere of the surgical bay.

The only other person in gloves, mask, and gown that did not pause in astonishment, with his hands applying sutures to Shepard's thoracic cage, was Wilson. Wilson, the neuroscientist with a bachelor's degree from Oxford, a medical doctorate from UCLA, and a PhD from Harvard. Wilson, the man that had once proposed and nearly made reality the possibility of organically reviving a consciousness from a vegetative state. Wilson, whose brilliant research was discarded for unethical practices. Wilson, who had the conviction to detach himself from the mound of meat and tubes to work alongside me for countless hours without blowing a gasket.

But even after he would retire for the evening I remained until the dawn that did not exist aboard Lazarus Station returned the medical crew to their stations. On those nights I couldn't sleep I assisted Shepard's round the clocks nurses: charting our progress step-by-step, adjusting his O2 flow rate, double checking his intravenous drip, and monitoring his implants.

Those numerous, A-class biosynthetic implants that substituted synapse firing to other organs and around the hunk of fairly intact tissue known as the brain while we reconstructed true neural pathways and function. They were not permanent and neither were the B-class that promoted healing, organ functionality, and structuring. But red-in color, the C-class implants were. Each muscle and bone weave that decreased potential for deterioration of ligaments and tendons, and increased durability of his body's structure. Both retinas that were incapable of detecting light as the original organic material were now enhanced to provide a more acute visual perception of his surroundings. They glowed an eerie vibrant crimson that set those _professionals _on edge. In time, when the skin grafts set in and melanin was reintroduced, his coloring would return to normal.

The Illusive Man denied only one of the implants I requested. A control chip that would have prevented Shepard from running off the moment he was well and able to sabotage Cerberus. My reasons had been logical, if not a tad paranoid. He was an anomaly, a bit of a _free-spirited _Spectre that had gotten himself into heaps of trouble. A few dismissed charges to mention would be mutiny and piracy. Of course, I only knew those things after Hope Lilium had stolen his classified Spectre records for me two days before Oriana's seventeenth birthday.

That year I had anonymously gifted her the opportunity to apprentice under author and investigative publicist Bernard Plim, the founder and president of the Conspiracy Accountability League. While a tad eccentric in his methods of exposing hanar for their true nature in their hierarchal order with the drell, and how salarian dalatrasses used the STG as their personal guards, his impassioned hunches tended to turn into accurate revelations. As he maintained a habit of requesting funding from his supporters, I figured a few extra credits would make him willing to take on an intern. Turns out I was correct.

Selecting him as a mentor for Ori satisfied both my need to be sure she was educated in opening her mind to possibilities, to always ask questions before being cajoled into believing just anything; and her incessant desire to learn and admire the work of one of her favorite authors. An interest I may or may not have discovered through monitoring her extranet history and credit chit purchases. According to emails she exchanged with her friends and comm calls with her parents, she had enjoyed my gift with all of the awe and enthusiasm of a normal, over-achieving, teenage braniac. I was elated. Although, I did pause to wonder if her parents were ever curious about all of the _free_ prizes, scholarships and _anonymous _donations Oriana received over the years.

Alas I digress.

How Lilium managed to wait out her extraction team on the Citadel without keeling over and dying was a feat in and of itself. The same day she and Spectre Tela Vasir had double-crossed one another, Lilium had been exposed to an unknown toxin that my medical staff had immediately triaged her for. Pallor had set into her deep almond skin, purple ringed her eyes, and she shook violently, strapped to a gurney by my EMTs.

I had barked orders for them to run a full toxin screen at once, rattling off instructions for the lab work I wanted drawn from her nurses and the immediate IV saline the operative needed to be put on. There was always a risk for field agents to be physically, emotionally, or psychologically compromised when they were on assignment. I myself had been more than forced out of my comfort zone on multiple occasions- put in mortal danger quite frequently actually. But having one of my agents return on her deathbed was certainly not a pleasurable experience.

I was fairly certain she tried to warn me about the virus encrypted amongst Shepard's data as I gave her well wishes and reassurances about the quality of her upcoming care. However, she slipped into unconsciousness before I could ask her to clarify.

Thankfully, I caught the error the moment the Illusive Man connected with me through the QEC. Holo-emitters transferred the image of me standing alone in my office, typing away at omni-screens surrounding my terminal. If he had been standing, we would have mirrored one another.

The glow of the red star behind him tinged his peppered, auburn hair with fire, and he raised an expectant eyebrow. "Was the intel complete?"

"Almost." There was a hefty pause as I chewed on the front of my lip, battling the last bit of the viral infection intended to bleed Cerberus dry. Hacking is a bit like riding a bike- you never forget how. And I happened to be very good at riding a bike. "But I was just able to extract the remainder when they attempted to activate their virus."

_Oh, and what's this? _I noted the one sided link still established between the Spectre offices and Cerberus attempting to drain our finances. A link I was able to inversely establish and collect, _Ah-ha._

The Illusive Man's approving smirk- caught out of the corner of my eye- nearly matched the smugness I felt swelling in my chest. He nodded, "Good."

_Very useful. Bravo, Miranda._ So I needed to provide myself with a little self-confidence every once in awhile. Sue me.

Punching in a few more codes I allowed my lip to curl upwards in satisfaction. A subtle amount of mirth slipped through my inflection. "And I even found some extra credits to boost the Lazarus funding while I was at it."

"If they weren't suspicious about our interest in Shepard when Operative Lilium stole his records, they will be now. Lazarus needs to be a success, Operative Lawson." Though I knew he meant well, I had already fallen into a habit of reminding myself of the exact same thing 11.25 times a day- on average.

I paused to consider a way to humanely rid myself of Wilson's scapegoat before it was too late- the copycat body he insisted Commander Shepard's mind could be dumped inside of if he failed to remap the entire nervous system of the true Shepard. The body I knew that could never succeed the original. Because clones are individuals**- **if truly autonomous. They are not meant to replace a predecessor.

I stood up from behind my desk, coolly collecting data pads I would distribute to my staff for review of their progress. "So, I take it the clone is no longer a priority project?"

"You may continue to use it for testing, but I want Shepard."

A weight evaporated from my shoulders, like water from the pavement on a hot summer's day. I would no longer have to deal with Wilson's incessant nagging to reroute our efforts. Then I remembered the other field agent placed in my care. "What about Hope Lilium?"

"What about her?" He wondered flatly.

"Aside from the fact that someone tried to kill her?" I snapped exactly as tersely as I intended. I knew he meant nothing by it, but at the time his response struck me as a bit…cold from someone that treated his employees so well.

He paused 8.7 second longer than usual to take a drag on his cigarette- and probably to remind me to regain my bearings. He consented, "Yes, that was troubling. I assume she'll live."

My thoughts flashed back to the operative currently stabilized in my med lab. "Yes." And suddenly I felt a pang of sympathy, "But her cover is blown. Vasir put her real biometrics in the Spectre database for wanted criminals. Her Council-standard identitags will no longer allow her free reign. She won't work in the field again, at least not for a while."

Life without the freedom to move about and put myself to use the best way I knew how would have been nightmarish, and for a moment I actually felt sorry for Lilium. Especially when I considered the fact that I was the one that had given her the assignment to directly interact with a Spectre in the first place. In a way, her fate was my responsibility.

Another failure to add to a very long list.

At least we had the data.

"We anticipated as much, but don't worry. I have another purpose for her." The Illusive Man quelled my inner concerns, turning back to a list of files covering his numerous holographic screens. "When Shepard is ready to go back into action, he'll need a team to operate with to ready the galaxy for the Reapers."

I recalled quickly what I knew of Hope Lilium: An orphan from a backwater mining colony in the Attican Traverse, she had climbed her way up on a life built around secrecy and trading information. Sometime in her early twenties, she had approached Cerberus and was eventually accepted amongst the Illusive Man's prize operatives. In her near decade of service we had worked together once or twice, rotating between the analytics and the actual interactive campaign. She had been cordial and efficient- perhaps even a bit coy and playful, but that was quickly overturned by my staunch professionalism. Motivated by self-preservation and opportunity, and quite proficient at reading people and absorbing new identities- I did not trust her.

So I decided to tread carefully when I agreed. "Hope has always been good at doing her research. When she's feeling better I'll assign her to composing dossiers of potential recruits. Should keep her mind off of field work for awhile."

"And I want nothing but the best for the commander."

For three months and seventeen days, Hope Lilium did exactly what was asked of her. She composed a list of the most powerful warriors and mercenaries, intelligent strategists, experienced assassins, psychotic criminals, tech, biotic and medical experts. She reached a grand total of forty-seven completed dossiers before she became paranoid about her lockdown to the Lazarus Cell, started finding the commander a bit too interesting, and had to be removed accordingly.

I was certainly not hoping for another betrayal or two.

Two months before the end of 2183, Paul Grayson was the next outside operative to grace my station with his presence. I had always liked Paul. Probably more so because we had connected as friends at The Farm in Nos Astra than for the red sand addict he had become. Ten years my senior, I had appreciated his lone wolf efficiency- a trait he had similarly praised me for. While Paul had shown me how to hotwire automobiles and improve my star fighter piloting skills- a skill that absolutely terrified Petrovsky- I had versed him in the arts of decryption and covering his tracks.

Naturally unforthcoming like most spies of any race or organization, there were years and extended periods of time we fell out of touch and knew very little about one another. If keeping tabs on one another's movements every so often constituted unfamiliarity. Still, there were lapses in his records and completely blank slates on missions. I knew of his daughter, though I had not heard he'd been married. It had been short lived due to her death in childbirth, but the union had produced Gillian- now a twelve-year-old little girl, a very gifted autistic savant and biotic prodigy. I was one of the few people Paul had shared her existence with, yet he was not one of the scarce individuals that had become aware of Oriana.

Tall and lean with dark hair and eyes, he had once been nearly as passably attractive as Lentz. But the day he had stepped through Lazarus Station's main loading bay doors, he was almost as ghastly in appearance as the body in the med lab that had just begun to retake shape. His eyes were rimmed red and bloodshot, his cheeks were ashen and gaunt, and his teeth had taken on a luminous discolored hue. And though he made a sincere effort to disclose the evidence, his body quivered slightly, easing its way down from a recent trip on false biotics.

"Paul," I had greeted him at the base of the docking ramp with Jacob, a few security mechs, and a disarming smile, disallowing him free reign of the station. My hands were folded cordially behind my back, grasping the package I had been instructed to give him since the Lazarus and Minuteman Stations were currently Cerberus' bases for pharmaceuticals. I scrutinized his expression a bit more carefully and noted, "You look terrible."

"Always good to see you, too, Miranda." His smile pulled back to reveal a few more damaged teeth, and his dehydrated eyes flickered between the doorway, to the guards on either side, and then to myself. "You look a little stressed. Security seems tight."

His attempt of feeding for information was completely rebuffed when he extended his hand out for a friendly shake. I scowled and refused to budge. "You've been dusting up again."

"Not really." Paul scratched the tip of his nose inconsequentially, still shivering. "What's going on here, Miranda?"

"You know I'm not going to tell you." I deflected, lowering my voice. I wasn't sure if I was more annoyed with a man I had once tried to help kick a habit- a man that was a father with a responsibility to a young girl no less- or with Dr. Loba, who had just this morning suggested we completely replace Shepard's missing leg with a bionic one to create some sort of damned cyborg. I placed the paper wrapped box in Grayson's hands. "Be a good father to Gillian, and clean yourself before you go to Grissom Academy. I'm sure the Ascension Project doesn't take kindly to its students' parents being sand-blasted. Sets a bad example."

A reproachful gaze was cast upon me. "I am a good father. I love Gillian. It's just… never mind. You wouldn't understand. You don't have anyone to care about besides yourself. No one else to look out for."

"You're right," I lied coolly. "I don't suppose I do."

Frustrated and quaking, Paul grasped his forehead and muttered, "Sorry."

"I don't doubt you care for your daughter," I half-heartedly reassured him before throwing a disgusted look at the package. "But, that medication- it says it's for migraines. I bet she gets them from time to time. And yet, one of the adverse reactions are stimulated eezo nodules on the SNS. Seems like a suspicious prescription to me. I would be very careful with it if I were you."

"PIPEDA, Miranda," Grayson snapped, rubbing at his wrist. "Still exists."

"On Earth." I acknowledged. "But, let's not pull a legal rights card. You and I both know we circumvent the law when circumstance benefits us. And I'm telling you as someone who would be disappointed to see you wind up face down in a gutter- be careful for yourself and your daughter, Paul Grayson."

When Paul and I parted ways for the second to last time, Jacob had whistled lowly on our march back inside the station. Maybe if I had known that within the week Grayson would call in an emergency extraction for himself and Gillian from the quarian cruiser Idenna, proceed to have a Cerberus team board, and further offer his impromptu and unwarranted resignation to the Illusive Man- our conversation probably would have gone a bit differently. How he, his daughter, and an Alliance rep had even managed to be kidnapped by quarians working for the Shadow Broker was beyond me.

Jacob shouldered his recently preferred shotgun- an M-27 Scimitar that he took pristine care of- and kept his eyes pasted on the path ahead of him. "Grissom? That's an Alliance effort, right? They could take his kid away if he's an addict, have him lose any custody rights."

"That's what he's afraid of," I agreed. "And then he goes back to the red sand to cope with the anxiety. A vicious cycle. One he's going to need to work out for himself."

Jacob pursed his lips as we hooked a right, and his LOKIs trotted up a flight stairs a few steps behind us. A few maintenance personnel moved about and we passed another security officer leading his own small detail of bots. The station and project's wellbeing had been one of my top priorities from day one. Mr. Taylor shrugged out of the corner of my eye. "At least he cares about his kid. Wants to be with her."

"Well, I can assure you of one thing, Jacob. Sometimes a father just shouldn't be involved with his children." It just sort of slipped out. I wasn't really directing the sentiment towards Paul, and I certainly hadn't meant to fling anything brusque at Jacob personally…Even though I'm pretty sure he took it that way.

"Yeah," He suddenly agreed. I detected a subtle layer of bitterness in his lower vocal chords, but he masked the expression fairly well. "Maybe. My old man wasn't around long enough for me to have bad memories. He backed out completely when I was fifteen."

For about 2.07 seconds, I scrutinized the marine I had head hunted on Cartagena several months before, rounding yet another hallway of the labyrinth. I had been knowledgeable of Jacob's father's absence. Ronald Taylor had reportedly gone down with his ship eight years ago, but I had been unaware there were three extra years he had chosen not to spend with his son. "I'm sure you turned out better than you could have if he'd been involved."

"Thanks," He murmured sincerely as we halted in front of Shepard's current surgical room.

Truthfully, Jacob was a good a man. Honest, structured, dutiful, private, direct, and polite. He had never tried to press his greater romantic interest upon me. I believe he sensed my disregard for the pursuit of a relationship beyond colleague, which I was thankful for. Firstly romances between coworkers- at least I believed so at the time- were typically terrible ideas. Rationally though, some of his traits seemed like things that I should have been able to care for. And I did- just as a friend.

But, no matter how I reasoned away- noting our shared structuring and lack of a need for dwelling on trivial- the emotions were not present, deep honest communication would have been a problem between us, and some of our essential views on the world were just too fundamentally opposing. I did not love Jacob Taylor. I did, however feel a bit guilty ever so often when the feelings I did not reciprocate shoved a wedge between our efficiency as teammates.

"Trust me, Jacob. I'll prove it to you sometime," I promised with a slight smile, which he returned before nodding and turning on his heel.

When I stepped foot into the med lab, I expected to walk in on my hematology and oncology teams mulling over Shepard's lymph nodes to check for pathogens and growths. Then I figured I would deliver new instructions to his charge nurse and revise his care plan. Instead, Wilson- with devilish excitement in his beady blue eyes and a perspiring bald head- shuffled towards me like a rotten little troll. He practically bounced with anticipation when he pointed at what was beginning to appear more like a very marred burn victim versus a rotting pile of ash. "Our boy's a bastard."

I scowled heavily. Bile- something along the flavors of indignant and bewilderment- rose up in the back of my throat. He needed to clarify. "What?"

"Shepard," He said a bit impatiently. "I compared his parents' DNA to his own, looking for genetic anomalies or discrepancies in sequences. James Tiberius Shepard is not Ernest James Shepard's biological father."

The news did actually surprise me. Hannah _and_ James Shepard had been listed on the lieutenant commander's birth certificate, but I supposed those signatures could have been forged. The pair had been married shortly following their son's birth, but such practice wasn't necessarily uncommon. According to Shepard's early history, James Shepard had raised the boy as his own, signed his report cards, paid his medical bills, purchased the first skycar Ernest was allowed to use as a teenager.

Of course, all of my data was objective, easily quantifiable with hard facts and records. I had no subjective insight into the relationship between adoptive father and son save for a few brief vid clips from the first of many memorial services honoring the men and women who had sacrificed their lives during the Battle of the Citadel. Council News Networks had severely limited Shepard's air-time, completely disallowing him from making a speech for fear of mentioning Reapers on live public broadcast, and even attempted post-interviews with the press had been circumvented. All I had to judge off of was his reaction to the toll of the bells as Admiral Steven Hackett read out the names of the deceased, and the one that must have stood out to the commander- Major James T. Shepard, SSV Hong Kong.

A high-resolution, single camera shot had panned a close up of Lieutenant-Commander Shepard. Besides his official identification photographs, the camera had captured the most detail I had ever see of him on a vid. Sullen in expression and attentive to the speaker, Shepard sat up straight with broad shoulders squared, reassuringly patting his mother's hand which desperately gripped his arm for support- a sure fire way to belie Captain Hannah Shepard's stern composure. Even adorned in the same dress whites that I will admit made her son look inexplicitly handsome, she was truly one of the most striking female humans I had ever seen with glossy, ebony hair pulled back in a tight bun, high cheekbones, dark olive complexion and brightly colored eyes only slightly outshone by her son's. I believe the only defining dissimilarities in their appearances- aside from contrasting spry masculinity and middle-aged femininity- were the commander's strong rectangular jawline, snubbed nose, and his unusual not-quite-buzzed copper hair. A rare, fiery color for humans indeed.

Even the stiff upper lips, and resistance to tear shedding were alike. Then again, so was the horrendous amount of pain swelling around their eyes, crinkling of sorrow in their brows, and infrequent swallows they forced upon their throats. So yes, in spite of all my supremely reliable personal experiences with parental figures, I believed Ernest and James Shepard were close, if not amiable. And I was certain Wilson's new fascination with one of the commander's supposed skeletons was a tad unfounded.

"So?" I admonished expectantly, resisting the urge to tap my foot as I offered Wilson an opportunity to come forth with any genetic or medical concerns. "What does this mean for Shepard? Did you find any unordinary structures or inherited defects? Family history of COPD maybe? Alzheimer's? Sickle cell anemia?"

"Well, no," Wilson confessed. "And all of those diseases are-"

"Revisable with gene therapy," I completed. "According to Shepard's psych profile, he doesn't seem to harbor any mental shortcomings due to parentage. Did you get a trace on the biological father?"

"Nothing concrete. But it looks like some nobody mercenary that died around First Contact."

"Well from the looks of it, I doubt he even knew. So, unless a gene falling along his Y chromosome is going to do him harm, don't mention it right away when he wakes up." I stared back at the wreckage on the operating table, adorning a surgical mask and filtering out Wilson's inconsequential data. In hindsight, I wish I had looked into Shepard's genealogy bit more. But I chose not to, and told Wilson, "Which I hesitate to believe will be anytime soon."

Wilson shook his head as he led me towards the lower bulkhead that also doubled as and interactive monitor for the commander's medical history and procedures, doctors' and nurses' notes, blueprints and maps of every portion and vital system of his body, how his implants worked. His blood pressure, respirations, and heart rate were all stabilized. If not a tad low from an extra bout of anesthetic. Yellow color-coded implants fired off signals to organs, but most of the nervous system was dark. Save for the natural green-coded impulses responding to portions of the hind and midbrain.

I stared intently at the monitor, expecting the sudden, natural flair to have been a fluke. We had only begun remapping more advanced features a few weeks earlier. His A-class biosynthetic inserts had encouraged the brain to recall the act of breathing and monitoring the heart, but what I saw was more. Consistent since a minute portion of the hippocampus- the memory storage unit- had interacted with the cerebellum to send ghost signals down his spinal column.

_Time stamped this morning at 0753 hours. _

"This was just after we examined a few of his eezo nodules. Look here," I pointed at the spider-webbed activity brimming around his shoulders and extending through his arms. "See how the static energy concentrates around the nodes and flows outwards. There's no follow through. The reflex is strained, practically nonexistent. More like a shadow rather than a true process. It looks like he was almost… remembering biotics."

_A distinctive memory. _

To feel nothing, to know nothing for seven months and four days. To have no thought, no emotion, nor reasoning or awareness and to suddenly, out of gray matter evoke the phantom of a reflex. But not recollect the sensation of the cool fire that licks at your skin, or comprehend the exhilaration of power so great you could tear apart molecules with a single thought and a motion. To not recall the first time you were confronted with the realization that you were different, gifted and cursed at the same time.

_A whisper in the dark, _I decided, catching myself absentmindedly clenching and unclenching my fist.

"So," Wilson implored. "Am I good at my job, or what?"

_Our friend Lazarus sleeps, but I go that I may wake him up._

"We aren't finished yet."

During the next morning's pre-conference, when the staff learned that Shepard was no longer officially brain dead was hardly any reassurance to them that their souls would not be cast into the fiery depths of Hell on their day of revelation, and only a few of them found my quip that the demons there couldn't possibly look any worse than Shepard did at that moment nearly as amusing as I did. I could respect their abilities as doctors, but not their lack of vision and creativity in the field of science. Because to them, we were not reviving a fallen hero that still had so much potential left for a life. In their misinformed eyes, we were defying the basic laws of nature to reanimate a soulless monster.

But as brain activity became more and more common in varying regions, indicative of an actual person living somewhere in the subconscious, their intrigue was stimulated and my nursing staff's behavior shifted. As though they were caring for a human being rather than a vegetable. It was his night shift nurses that specifically earned my respect. Before his skin grafts were complete, while so many points on his body still glowed orange, before his nose and ears were constructed by the cartilage knitter, before there were nails or hairs. Without flinching they would whisper to Shepard in low, reassuring voices, and stroke his hands and arms with soothing fingers.

During the many twilight hours that sleep evaded me, I soon discovered myself implementing similar tactics. At first, I felt a bit ridiculous speaking to someone I was sure was completely unaware of his surroundings- an opinion I had no problem sharing with Shepard. Nonetheless, in his deep medically induced slumber, I explained the procedures I performed. I kept him up to date on recent galactic affairs like the Kingu comet that devastated the hanar colony of Belan, the Raloi- the new sentient avian race the council had made contact with, and I expressed my concern over the seven human colonies that had been mysteriously abducted the day I learned Cyrene and its population of just under half a million people had gone dark. Still it was not a sentiment I truly understood until the day Wilson almost accidentally killed the commander.

Months had passed and a human had taken form. The planes and angles and extremities were all now distinctly male. By the beginning of March 2185, Shepard no longer needed a bone knitter. His entire skeletal structure had been repaired and was reinforced by countless weaves. His cardiopulmonary systems functioned properly, albeit keeping an endotracheal tube stuffed down his mouth and through his throat to keep an open airway was unanimously agreed upon. So was the urinary catheter to intercept the ending result of his renal function before his patient gown could, and the IV drip that provided his medications and nutrients. The deeply bronzed olive complexion Shepard had sported before his fall to Alchera had returned, but was ashen from lack of exposure to natural and artificial sunlight. Apart from the countless tangerine scars wiring his features, his skin was smooth and unblemished.

Factoring the considerable amount of time Shepard had been unconscious, atrophy and contraction had hardly set into his muscles due to the constant electrical nerve stimulations of his biosynthetic inserts. However when Wilson and I planned to remove the final group of Shepard's A-class implants from in and around his spinal column, Wilson refused to realize the fact that a 75-kilogram person required more than 180 mg of titrated barbiturates to remain unconscious during an operation. Unfortunately, he had already administered the drug by the time I arrived in a fresh uniform, prepared for surgery. Suffice to say, I was displeased with his irrational undermining. Rational, logical undermining that improves a situation is respectable in my book. But when such actions are based solely on sheer stupidity and possibly endanger my objective, I tend to be rather displeased.

"His body mass will be unaffected by that low of a dosage. The implants will just burn the medication off."

"Then it's a good thing we're removing them," He countered.

"Shepard's going to wake up during the operation," I hissed, throwing Wilson a reproving look. "He's built up a tolerance to narcotics. You need to up the dosage."

The physician flouted my warning, continuing to run electromagnetic scanners across Shepard's body to detect the locations of the implants and marking them on his skin with blue ink. "He'll be fine. I've got sedatives prepared just in case. It's a quick procedure anyways. We can give him more once we're done."

"I don't think you're hearing what I'm saying," I snapped. "He. Is. Going. To. Wake. Up. He already teetered on the verge of awareness last night. You saw the report."

"Yeah, and it was because of-"

"Another medication error. Do you have any idea what it'll do him if he regains consciousness during spinal surgery? First: if he lives, the experience may traumatize him. Physically and psychologically. He could jolt and we could sever something important. And, I don't know. Paralyze him. That would put us back months. Credits don't grow on trees. Second: He could hyperventilate from anxiety and give himself a heart attack. I've got half a mind to…" I was going to say '_fire you_' even though I knew finding a replacement would have been foolhardy this late into Shepard's recovery.

But the sudden spike in Shepard's heart rate from 83 BPM to 115 BPM caught my attention.

In the background Wilson muttered cleverly away, "Look Lawson, I've got degrees from the best schools on Earth. I've been published across the galaxy for my work on in vitro spinal taps to access element zero in the body. I rebuilt a vegetative consciousness, and I brought Shepard back to life. I've got thirty years of medical experience, which means I've been doing this since before you were probably even born. So don't tell me-"

"Pull your head in and look at the monitor!" I directed at once.

The steady beeps and chirps became so frequent in repetition, there was hardly anyway to distinguish individuals. Brain activity had spiked. Rooted in the visual and auditory thalamus and landing straight in the amygdala. An indication of emotion based off of…

"Oh my god," Wilson breathed, shuffling towards the monitor to get a better view of the brain and the neural pathways firing at rapid speed. "Shepard is reacting to outside stimuli. Showing an awareness to his surroundings." His voice became a bit smaller. "I think he's waking up."

_Might explain why he's trying to sit up, _I decided not to shoot back. Instead as Shepard's heart rate continued to climb, I rushed to his side and grasped the hand that flailed desperately for understanding, the one still too heavy and awkward under its own weight. Delivering a reassuring squeeze to his fingers, I pressed down against his chest with my free hand and was met with terrified glowing eyes. God, I will never forget the look on his face. The ominous orange of cybernetics diluting his natural green irises, the horror and bewilderment and pleading infused in his expression as he tried to pull the pieces together. Frightened, uneven respirations thrumming beneath my fingertips, sapphire corona flaring around his shoulders. I could not wrench my gaze away as I ordered Wilson to deliver another dose of the sedative.

For the first time since I could recall, I was chilled to the bone. Disturbed even more so by the flash of gratitude and trust as Shepard faded back into unconsciousness. Wilson could not meet my eye when I decided to postpone the surgery until the next day to allow his body to recuperate. Locking down the med lab, save for two nurses, I retreated coolly, suppressing Mary Shelley's insight into my situation.

_The different accidents of life are not so changeable as the feelings of human nature. I had worked hard for nearly two years, for the sole purpose of infusing life into an inanimate body. For this I had deprived myself of rest and health. I had desired it with an ardor that far exceeded moderation; but now that I had finished, the beauty of the dream vanished, and breathless horror and disgust filled my heart. Unable to endure the aspect of the being I had created, I rushed out of the room._

_No, that's not true, _I told myself as I slunk to the floor behind my desk, swallowed 5 mg of Eximo, flipped on the _Rabbit of Seville_, and opened the first pack of cigarettes I had touched in seventeen years. The last time I had smoked, Petrovsky had caught me, sat me down, and had a very sincere discussion about the cancerous risks and aging and his concern for my health. He also departed on the note that if he ever found another cigarette in my hand he would make me smoke an entire carton all at once. And if I hadn't been so unsettled, the memory might have made me laugh.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: **Firstly, let me apologize for the long waits. And thank you to everyone sticking with this story because it is moving ahead. Slowly but surely. I'm going to try to pop the next chapter out way sooner though because Lazarus was never intended to be a two-parter. It just got so damn big that I had to split it in half. So, yes, Shepard will be up next chapter, and no he is not default Shepard. If you would like to see him, you can go to my profile and look at my icon or follow this link: ** cheernerd7. deviantart art/What-You-Don-t-Think-I-m-Hungry-459781189**. Just be sure to remove the spaces.

Second, I would like to point out that **commandocucumber** updated **"Perspective' **this weekend. For those of you that haven't read it, you're making a mistake. It's a wonderful, realistic, in character telling of the dynamics between Shepard and Ashley and Miranda with a far more in depth spin on ME3 and the Collector Mission.

I believe **LaterHosen **has also updated **'Forgoing the Inevitable.'** A great aftermath fic.

And **Mal Cobb**'s **'A Measure of Salvation' **has also been updated with a great character arc for Miranda and build up sequence to ME3.

Check out their fics guys, they're great. **  
><strong>

Thanks for reading!


	14. Lazarus Years Pt 9 El'azar Rises

**Pt. 9 El'azar Rises**

**_2230 Hours, Saturday, April 23, 2185 / {TOP SECRET LOCATION} Lazarus Station, Dark Space, Horsehead Nebula, Earth Systems Alliance Space / 1 year, 1 month Pre Reaper invasion of Earth_**

Cerberus space stations tended to be built with a degree of paranoia in mind. If one was ever to be compromised by a boarding party or bombardment from opposing pirates, slavers, or organizations, fail safes were in place to be sure vital staff or project members and technology were secured. Not that I had been aware of any actual emergency occurrences on one of our other stations. Each was far too isolated. Binthu was not in dark space, Shepard had been an exception, Lillium was a fluke, and I simply figured the Illusive Man was cautious.

There was plenty of cover from potential gunfire, and routes to elude an enemy. Unless of course that enemy knew all those hiding places, routes to shuttle evacuation zones, and vital project sites. Which I could correspond my knowledge of to my debacle with Hope Lillium. Alas, I blame the service tunnels for leaking mechs all over the facility. And myself for being totally blindsided.

Well, _almost_ totally. I had suspected a mole inside Lazarus the moment I discovered a well-encrypted transmission between one of my staff members and a Shadow Broker operative… dating back nearly two weeks from the date and onward.

Apparently I had spent too much time fretting over Shepard's basic care and too little monitoring my own people. Granted absorbing and implementing five years worth of medical and nursing school text books into less than six months, versing myself in every objective fact there was to know about Commander Shepard from his service and medical history, managing the day to day functions of an entire station, writing updates to the Illusive Man on our progress, and keeping an eye on every single vid cam, bug, and monitor in place was a lot to ask of a normal person.

But I was supposed to be perfect. I should have been able to find a minor discrepancy. I was designed to circumvent discrepancies. I had been molded to foresee error. Yet this transmission had slipped through the net, and I had only myself to blame.

And Wilson.

_[Encrypted Transmission}_

_"__Agathe, it's Wilson. Shepard's almost…{Data Corrupted}. Tell the Shadow Broker… {Data Corrupted} Lazarus will finish soon and I can get the body to you on…{Message Encrypted}. It'll be done. Just remember, I need to be paid and I'm not doing this for my health. The Illusive Man'll have my head for this if he find out."_

Heat rushed to my face and I breathed out coolly to cease the erupting storm of anger in my chest. My nails ground into my palms, burrowing small markings into my smooth flesh, and my eyes narrowed hostilely up at the message on my omni-tool. The one that floated just above my face, taunting me. My gaze raked across the decoding transmission for just 2.45 seconds longer than it should have before I decided that if anyone were going to mount Wilson's head as an ornament, it would be me.

I was livid. Blood rushed through my ears. I wanted to… I wanted to throw something. I wanted to do something irrational. I wasn't irrational, just… _How could Wilson do this to Lazarus? To all of my work and progress? To Cerberus? To the Illusive Man? _

I inhaled deeply to settle myself. In an instant I had rolled off my bed in one graceful movement and stalked like an apex predator across my quarters towards my very organized- if rather empty- closet. From within I withdrew one of my preferred white with black ensembles, thigh-high leather combat boots that I could lace up with perfect ease, and a double-sided utility belt. Practical, simple to move in, mesh fibers built in along with kinetic barriers to act as protective plating. My only concern for my belongings was washing out Wilson's bloodstains when I ended him, supposedly non-blemishing material aside.

Given the fact Wilson had nearly euthanized Shepard the previous month and just recently tipped off the galaxy's most notorious and vengeful information broker- the silent party that had desired Shepard's body two years ago- the pros of permanently terminating my chief medical technician's dealings with Cerberus were vastly outweighing the sole con of, 'Maybe it's not what it looks like.'

I would not make the same mistake twice.

And then the screaming started.

The greatest part about being able to hear on par with a bat is that I can pick up high-frequency sounds like blood curdling cries of anguish, or bombardment of silenced submachines guns- _yes, those are definitely guns-_ going off from nearly half a klick away through numerous, dense metal bulkheads in the way. And whatever firefight was happening outside was certainly not pleasant. The carpeted floor beneath my still bare feet rumbled and shook the walls ever so slightly. Screeches of metal grinding metal echoed through the gangways, and the sounds of bullets sinking into the soft organic tissue of their targets made their way to my ears. And almost made me cringe.

Subsequently the ordnance popped another chorus and influenced my decision to layer myself with ebony and golden-striped Spirit armor. Not the best choice in names, but the glossy framework was certainly designed with a wearer that crept like a shade in mind. Light weight, sturdy ceramic plating with microcomputers that gathered real-time battle telemetry to synchronize precise biotic and tech attacks and allow for proper cool down time for both my amp and omni-tool.

With my door already sealed with omni and manual locks, I immediately switched on the monitors at my desk and witnessed the terror that were sabotaged mechanicals. Security drones pooled out across the station like the Great Flood- devouring everything in its wake. LOKIs reeled on their unsuspecting security officer during the middle of a patrol across a bridge. An YMIR opened fire on the crowd in the rowdy, populated mess. Another programmed with an IFF I once considered tried and true- given the fact I had personally supervised their reprogramming after Hope Lillium's little adventure into the security network- slaughtered the nurse outside of his station across the hall from the med lab Shepard lay unconscious in.

_It was a cave, and a stone lay against it.__The Son of God and Man cried out, "Take away the stone."_

My stomach dropped about half a mile. I had never been much for prayers, but for an instant I sincerely hoped that the loitering droid would forego curiosity, walk away from the padlocked door, and not attempt to fire at any circuitry.

I prodded on the wrist piece I wore at all times and my omni-tool flashed back to life. To no avail I tried to access the station's IFF mainframe. A red flashing_ {Error} _lit up across the holo-screen. I released an unladylike grunt of frustration and within the next 2.5 seconds tried scrambling one of the firewalls. This time I was met with _{Error. Rerouting. Identify Friendly-Foe Program has been corrupted. Data Erased.}_

"Dammit," I breathed, disallowing the swell of stress and what could only be severe apprehension from settling in by compartmentalizing the emotions into functional states of being.

_Oh, god. _I silently panicked as I tried to reroute the IFF sensors and put more foes on the LOKI's radar on the deck below. If I couldn't access the actual IFF, I could at least put false movement on the grid elsewhere. Even if there was a risk of putting my surviving staff in danger. Shepard was priority number one._ This is it. All of my hard work. Right down the drain. Shepard's going to be killed and Lazarus will have failed. You were wrong Petrovsky. There's nothing to be proud of here. I failed a-_

_Oh._

Thankfully, my worry was for naught. Most VI militia bots are usually too stupid to go hunting, and apparently most did not debate my assumption. I heaved a massive sigh of relief when the LOKI merely made a right on its flank and continued down the gloomy, red flashing gangway.

But little time would eclipse before the next set of bots decided to scout the medical bay because someone would most certainly send them there. This spontaneous attack had to be an inside job. No one had slipped in or off the station in several weeks. No scheduled shuttle departures to Minuteman, no conspicuous activity. I monitored all supply shipments, personnel arrivals and scarce departures regularly. The only people that would have had the security access to the mechs would have been security and myself. More specifically my top lieutenant.

But Jacob was… Jacob wouldn't… No, he couldn't. He couldn't just betray me like this.

But, Wilson could. Wilson was sly and cunning.

My fist clenched tightly, and a frustrated spark of biotics leapt from my palm. My resolve clear, I knew exactly what I had to do. I was going to find and finish Wilson. Maybe it was petty, unprofessional, or nearly personal. But I would make him pay in full for each life lost aboard Lazarus Station, for the life of the once great Spectre he had jeopardized.

Chiefly I had to get Shepard out of that med lab and preferably off the station. He certainly wasn't safe lying defenseless and unconscious in a hospital bed with a catheter strapped to the commander's genitalia, an IV plunged deep within his slender right arm, and a breathing tube plowed down his still recuperating throat to prevent any airway closure. So half dressed and sliding on a pair of greaves over a glove that I would gladly strangle the traitor in, I set up a secure connection and radioed the one person I knew I could trust.

"Jacob, it's Miranda." I ignored the urge to apprehensively rub at my chest and hoped he was still alive. My options were running slim. "Jacob, do you read me? Are you there?"

_… __1… 2… 3…4… 5… 6… 7… 8… 9…_

"Jacob. Come in." I would poach twenty extra seconds. Nothing more. Not a millisecond less. If Mr. Taylor did not respond then I would find another way to retrieve Shepard safely.

_10… 11… 12… 13… _

For what felt like an eternity I detained my breath, lingering in absentia when suddenly the opposite end of my radio line popped and fizzed to life. Gunfire coated the fuzzy feedback crackling away in my ear and deep, heavy breathing followed suit. "Oh, shit. Katie, get down!" Jacob Taylor barked to someone on his end and heaved another sigh. "Miranda, I read you. You okay? What the hell is with all the mechs? Maybe it's just me, but this is starting to feel a bit cyclical! Except this time they're _all_ after us."

I released a grunt of disapproval. "Don't remind me."

"Any idea whose fault this is?"

"Yes. Where are you?"

Another '_Pop! Pop! Pop!' _drilled against my eardrum before Jacob growled, "On the edge of C wing. Bethany Bridge over by D wing's main entrance. This is an inside job, huh?"

"Absolutely, and I'm going to take care of it. But first, what's your situation?" I asked, searching for a safe route between the locked down med bay and Jacob's nesting point. "I'm working on pulling up your location on the camera feed."

"Nikolaidis is down. Mechs are pourin' outta the service tunnels across the gangway. I've got Katie with me. We're pinned down pretty hard. I thought you reprogrammed them after Lillium decided to-"

"Believe me, I did." I snapped, tersely biting down on my tongue for my failure. "At least so far there's no reminiscing of 'enkindle this' blaring over the loud speakers."

My top lieutenant released a bitter laugh as his image appeared on my monitor. With him was one other, embellished in the brilliant, ivy Cerberus armor. They were barricaded behind cover, firing at LOKIs down the hall in random intervals. Unleashing a bout of biotics, Jacob ducked back down. "Because choppy bits of Mozart make me feel better."

"Beethoven," I corrected, working my way around the station's mainframe. "And I'm not going to waste time shutting the bloody background soundtrack off. _If _I even can. I will however, trigger some alarms- give you a diversion. I can't access their programming, but according to the feedback I'm receiving these mechs should still respond to emergencies… Apparently there's a band of pirates boarding _and _an electrical fire going off in E wing."

"Thanks, but won't everybody over there be in jeopardy now?"

"Only Shepard matters, and I need you to go wake him up. He'll be dead by the time I get to him. You're closer."

"You want me to wake him up?" Jacob nearly choked in surprise.

"Yes. Then get him to the shuttles."

I had given ample consideration to the possible detrimental impacts on Shepard's health prematurely waking him could cause. By and far my largest concerns were an increased risk for stroke or heart attack sometime in the immediate forty-eight hours, in spite of his young age. Atrial flutters and tachycardia were incredibly likely given the immediate cessation of sedatives. Musculoskeletal exams were still necessary to determine full functionality, especially considering the fact that during his time under the knife, Shepard had lost nearly 20% of his original bodyweight since his time fighting Saren. His coordination and instinctual reaction time would undoubtedly be impaired, and any question of lucidity would be thrown right out the airlock. His topical and inner systems were riddled with sutures of recent surgery, and were likely quite painful to an alert mind. Each of which would have been fine and reversible given time-e had he not been forced to wake up in the middle of a gunfight.

There was a heavy pause over the radio, and Jacob suddenly adorned a jarred hesitation in his movements. "Oh, shit," he breathed. "Serious enough to get him up and running?"

"I doubt he'll be able to do much running. Which is why I need you to help him, Jacob." I swallowed resolutely. Down the gangway, the screams had drowned out against walls of gunfire. Metal bipeds marched clumsily through the walkways, and I knew there was only a matter of time before any of their corrupted mandates would realize there was still at least one survivor in the housing wing. "Lazarus is going up in smoke as soon as we're off the bloody station."

"I'm sorry, Miranda. I know how much you loved the project."

"Don't be. Just be sure any lives lost today aren't in vain."

Sirens blared over the distorted music and dissipating cries outside. For nearly ten minutes I nervously fingered the knife on my belt as I rattled off forewarnings and safe directions for Jacob and his comrades. With Mr. Taylor's adequate telekinetic abilities, they were easily capable of overcoming a small detail of LOKIs. One bot's head exploded on contact, and the other two were crushed like tinfoil against the iron bulkheads. Dust and smoke had begun to flood the corridors, fires teemed with life, and emergency life support systems had been compromised.

All the while, I kept an eye out for Wilson. And just as Jacob approached Shepard's med bay, I found him. Sweating, panting, and bruised but very much alive, Wilson lurked like a traitorous little weasel towards the temporary safe haven of the network control room, slinking carefully pressed against the walls, armed with a pistol, sneaking glances over his shoulder as the low crimson rays of alarms reflected off of his bare scalp.

A low growl rumbled in my throat. Andrew Wilson would attempt to shut down the mechs, return for Shepard's body once any living staff member was exterminated, and rush for the shuttles. I had at least an eight-minute timeframe before he realized his amateurish mistake in sabotage. The fact that he had encoded them all with a practically irreversible virus, and that they would very likely kill him on sight. Maybe that wasn't such a bad thing, but I still felt the need to kill him myself.

"Alright I'm here," Jacob spoke again as he tore off his helmet. He waltzed inside the orderly med lab and motioned for his security team to hold the line outside behind toppled tables and ornaments. Clearly anxious, the marine hugged his shotgun a bit tighter before ultimately deciding to holster the weapon. He scratched at his wrist and glanced around the sterile white walls, gawking at the multi-million credits worth of surgical arms used during precise operations hung from the ceiling beside medical imaging equipment. "What do I do?"

"Typically I'd instruct you to wash your hands, but we are really lacking on time for proper procedure. First thing first, remove his catheter."

Indignant almond eyes widened down at the supremely unconscious commander whose chest rose and fell mostly of his accord. "Wait! You want me to handle Shepard's junk?"

"Oh, for the love of god!" I pinched my nose to release the boiling pressure of an oncoming headache.

"You know what I mean? I've never…" he trailed of as his hands waved out in a noncommittal gesture. "Y' know? He's a guy."

"So you're saying, if he were a woman this would be easier for you?" I snapped back.

"What? No!" he protested. "Don't put words in my mouth."

"Then don't act like an incompetent oaf. This is a medical procedure. Shepard has a penis, and there's a condom with tubing currently attached to it. Heaving around any further deadweight on your way to the shuttles shouldn't be high on your priority list." Progressively impatient, I leaned into the screen and hissed, "Take it off of him, Jacob."

"_Ugh_. Fine." Visibly cringing with his hands beneath Shepard's hospital gown, Jacob looked more like a man instructed to pet a vorcha than perform a medical procedure. And faster than a volus could sniff a bargain, the tubing was long forgotten. "Alright. Next?"

"See the cabinets on your left? On the one closest to Shepard is a box of medications. Inside you'll find a syringe I prepared for emergency purposes filled with and labeled Naloxone. I'm going to need you to clamp off the IV. Do_ not _remove the needle. Replace the tubing with the vial."

"Damn. Slow down," Jacob bit back, rummaging through the box. "I'm not a doctor."

"Neither am I," I retorted, feeling the heavy weight of time ebbing away.

"Well, I can't pick up a book and remember every word on the page. You've gone through what? A hundred textbooks? And I've seen you perform successful brain surgery. The only two differences between you and Wilson, is a degree and intelligence."

I relented, "Touché. Now count to ten while you administer the medication."

Antsy and quivering, Jacob tuned out the gunfire and explosions around the lab's exterior and followed my instructions, barely maintaining the snug IV in Shepard's radial artery. "What is this stuff?"

"Opioid antagonist. It should counteract the anesthetic and wake him up."

Jacob swallowed hard and released a shaky breath. "Why not use a stimulant? Won't that hyper-activate him for a little while?"

"Contraindicated with the sedatives he's now probably, slightly addicted to. Might give him a heart attack," I muttered. "Speaking of which, watch his heart rate. If his pulse becomes thready and rises above one hundred beats per minute, give him the antiarrhythmic in the bucket. In fact, pocket it just in case. It should keep him stable."

"Great. Will do." Voice growing progressively smaller, the novice medic removed the needle from Shepard's chest and pressed a cotton swab to cease any extravagant blood flow.

_Why so squeamish? _I happened to be tempted to taunt him, but my higher cognitive processing told me to be aware of Wilson looking mightily pleased with himself against a monitor in the network control room. "Good. The medication should set in momentarily. While he's still unconscious tilt his head forward, and pull the breathing tube out of his mouth. Careful! You could scratch his trachea. Might make him bleed all over the damn place, and at the very least you could damage his vocal chords."

"Jesus, Miranda! Anything else? All of these little side effects makes it seem like I'm gonna accidentally kill him."

"God, I hope not. I might have to murder you to break even."

"You're hilarious," he muttered glumly, propping up Shepard's limp, shaven head and dragging the slimy endotracheal from its cavernous home.

"I like to think so."

Then we waited, listening, ready to jump at a moment's notice. Somewhere not too far from me a responding round of gunfire shattered any hopes of survivors. Through my comm I could hear the explosion that shook the med bay and knocked Jacob slightly off balance. Red lights flashed evacuation warnings on my terminal, and I bounced back and forth on the soles of my combat boots in anticipation. The same echoing tremor near the med lab put Jacob's temporarily unnecessary detail on edge as screeching klaxons washed away the sound of music and jump started Shepard's return to awareness.

For the first time- without risk of neurological failure or hemorrhage- I watched the commander's eyes open. My brows rose in interest. _He cried with a loud voice, "Lazarus, come forth!"_

He stared, silent and unflinching at the ceiling for a long moment. Only when another rumble of the floor tilted his head to the side did he take note of Jacob's presence. Before I could make any suggestions, my comrade had patched me into his omni-tool's speaker and rattled off an introduction.

"Commander Shepard," he said, making a soothing gesture to the disoriented man on the table. "My name is Jacob Taylor. My friend over the radio is Miranda Lawson. We're going to get you out of here to some place safe."

"How are his vitals? Is he alright?"

"Looks okay to me. His blood pressure and pulse seem kind of fast. Normal, though." Jacob asked, "How are you feeling, Shepard?"

Shepard moved not a muscle. His dull stare so absent I was half sure he would begin to drool or mess himself. I had nearly convinced myself Lazarus had caused him permanent brain damage when he suddenly blinked and a hoarse, unused voice muttered, "I feel like I'm falling." Then with slightly stiff movements he grimaced, sat up unsteadily, reached for the uppermost point of his practically hairless cranium and asked, "Where's my helmet?"

Jacob looked baffled. "Uh, your helmet? Commander, you're in a med bay."

"I won't be able to breathe without my helmet. Might crack my head open," Shepard protested.

I was so shocked to hear him speak for the first time, I wasn't sure if I should have laughed with the relief bubbling in my chest or offered him some sort of disillusioned reassurance. But when I noticed the commander begin to absentmindedly toy with his tongue and mutter something about it feeling like cotton, I settled for practicalities with the only alert individual in the immediate vicinity. "Jacob, this is a result of the medication. Shepard is about as concerned with our current situation as a vorcha in an opera house. He'll see and hear everything happening, might even ask a few questions, but just won't be able to fully comprehend the magnitude. Try to orient him a little bit. And keep him safe."

Startled by my voice, Shepard's eyes widened and darted back and forth- albeit rather unfocusedly. Far more sinister than any krogan warlord I'd met before, his face fell grim and he released his tongue. "Who was that? How's she talking to us?"

Poor Jacob looked incredibly put off by the hero he had so admired- had practically gushed over. "Miranda, Shepard. She's helping us. Could you, uh, tell me your name?"

The invalid's features scrunched together in frustration. "I'm, uh… I, um… What's your name again?"

I huffed in partial amusement, partial annoyance. "We're running out of time. I can't keep the mechs distracted forever. You need to head to the shuttles."

Shepard threw his rescuer a horrifically patronizing expression and rolled his crimson-diluted eyes. His voice was slow. "You still want to tell me that's not a ghost?"

"No, that's just Miranda." Jacob actually spent the time to release a strangled laugh before offering the commander his hands. "Can you stand?"

Shepard blinked. "So… Miranda… is a ghost?"

The moment a round of bullets collided with my door outside, my patience evaporated. "Never mind, Jacob. No time for a proper orientation. Get him out of there and to the shuttle bay!" My breath hitched as my quarters suddenly lurched beneath me feet. "Immediately!"

"What was… Miranda?" Jacob's voice and visual hissed and popped like an angry klixen. "I… catch…"

Then the feed fizzled out and I lost all auditory and visual contact. I might have attempted to reestablish contact had the inside of my door not suddenly buckled under the intruding, clawed fist of YMIR. Never one without a contingency plan, I decided to circumvent the horde of lethal machines attempting to barge into my room via a padlocked trapdoor beside my bed, which dropped directly into the station's main ventilation ducts. And sealed myself inside- undetectable to any sensory output device- just before the heat of the explosive used to split a hole in my wall could singe my scalp.

Narrow, hardly shallow enough to crouch in, running- or, rather scurrying- proved more lackluster than difficult. Deprived of a physical map in hand, I drew up a mental image in my head. Lazarus was a labyrinth. Gangways, staircases, and elevators lead out of one room and into the next only to end in a completely obscure destination. One service tunnel alone could lead technicians from their base of operations on B wing to the housing units on D wing, up to C wing's bio center, then to the shuttle bay on A wing, back to an airlock on E wing. Switchbacks and ventilation ducts outlined the entire complex. Not that I'd ever had the pleasure.

Nearly overwhelming concern for the wellbeing of my project subsisting, I needed to remain almost certain in Jacob's abilities to pull Shepard through. Because in all honesty, I had two viable options: Hunt down Jacob and Shepard with the risk of never rendezvousing, or punch a hole on my way to the shuttles and secure transport for us. And I still had to finish Wilson's wasteful excuse for a life.

In hindsight I should have fired him the first day he decided to jeopardize the commander's life. It might have saved me the trouble of nearly suffocating on ashes or practically burning to death, dropping out of a grate into the center of a pack of mechs somewhere around Server Room B, being shot at every several seconds on my way to the hangar bay, and straining my amp during an indirect confrontation with a YMIR I barely managed to elude. Not to mention witnessing the brutal murders of my staff murdered over the vid cams, and the ultimate waste of Cerberus resources and technology.

Heaving for breath, but focused and alert, I jostled my way onto the closest operating shuttle's platform mere seconds before the opposite door's red-lit lock flashed green. Instinctively drawing Petrovsky's Predator, I felt a twinge of satisfaction when I was met with Wilson's shocked, beady blue eyes. He gasped almost audibly, "Miranda? You... you're alive? But, I-"

"Sent a bunch of mechs after me? Not what you were expecting, I bet. I think I would have preferred your formal resignation, but I can understand the pressure of the job. Simultaneously working for the Shadow Broker." And then he reached for his gun, and I pulled the trigger, splattering his brains across the wall behind him. "It could really make you lose your mind."

I wasn't sure if the resounding noise I heard was a strangled laugh, or a sharp inhale of sheer horror. But, I knew it wasn't from Jacob. Jacob's almond eyes were wide with shock, gaping down at the body of his former coworker as he berated my actions. "What the hell are you doing?"

"I thought I'd end things here with a bang, Jacob! Why else?" I snapped in dire frustration, desiring nothing more than to unload my thermal clip into Wilson's body. Dignity be damned. He had cost the lives of my staff. Granted a few of them had been cowardly squeamish in the beginning, but they'd all been proficient and relatively integral to the success of the project. The project the Illusive Man had so carefully delegated to me. _My_ project that Wilson had nearly squandered out of selfishness. I very nearly fired off another round when I heard the sound repeat, and recalled my company. Breathing in, I sheathed my weapon and launched a withering glare at Jacob. "My job, of course. Wilson was a treacherous little snake."

No, the snigger erupted from the smocked, rather lanky figure leaning heavily against him. It's strange to think that so many probably fall under the false impression the Mighty Savior of the Citadel was just as powerful, dashing, and lethal during his showdown with Saren as he was on the day he awoke on my station. Those tropes of Shepard perfectly healthy, gun in hand, biotics blazing, well-armored, battling his way off the station to come to Mr. Taylor's aide, and finding me with the resounding voice of Etta James playing over the loud speaker are little more than fallacies. Quite the opposite actually.

Former Lieutenant-Commander Ernest Shepard was nowhere near his prime. His iconic, perpetually restyled, carmine red locks truant; the only scarlet thing about him were the shimmering nexus of unhealed tissue and implants souring across his bare arms, legs, and face, diluting the true color of his eyes and adding an eerie glow to his flushed, olive skin. A cold sweat accrued at his primary endocrine glands and drenched his hospital gown. Weak and struggling for air his entire body quivered, unsteadying his shorter base of support. According to the immediate scans I ran with my omni-tool, he was also running a mild fever, hyperventilating, and was severely tachycardic.

_And he who had died came out bound hand and foot with grave clothes, and his face was wrapped with a cloth._

Full peach lips twitched into the first lopsided smile Shepard would ever throw me. Whether the expression was genuine, amused, wry and resentful, or merely absent-minded was difficult to decipher. And I only had a second's guess before he grimaced and slowly clutched his chest with a knobby free hand. His startling eyes became pleading. "My heart hurts."

And then he swan-dived headfirst into a dead faint.

We caught him, of course. Barely. A concussion thrown into the equation of Shepard's medical mix-up would have been rather undesirable.

One arm around each of our shoulders, we hauled him onto the shuttle's bench and jammed the antiarrhythmic into his system to prevent any further damage. Jacob mashed away at the spacecraft's console, punching in coordinates to desert the burning station and all of its chaos as I expertly maneuvered the onboard crash cart- reinstating wires to stabilize Shepard, patches to monitor his pulse and blood pressure, and a reduced dosage of an opiate through a new IV to prevent any major withdrawal symptoms.

Only when my own palpitations simmered down did I acknowledge the death grip my fingers had formed around Shepard's wrist, and the fact that I had sunk to my knees under the fortitude of shock, anger, and the impending weight of my near failure. I immediately withdrew, noticing the feint, red silhouettes of my impression. Embarrassed to realize we had been in flight long enough to reach FTL, I stood, draped a fleece blanket over him and slumped into the copilot's seat beside my lieutenant with a hand pressed to my forehead.

Silence persisted for nearly half an hour. Apart from the tinkering of consoles to alert Minuteman Station of our intercept trajectory, a quick message to the Illusive Man, and occasional heavy sighs, there was hardly any evidence of coherent personnel aboard. The inky, speckled veil was thick and all encompassing. Mysterious, dangerous in many ways, yet altogether alluring and serene, outer space was a refuge I hardly ever took the time to aesthetically appreciate.

"How is he?" Jacob finally muttered, navigating us through somewhere only glancing the outer edge of the Horsehead Nebula. He had haphazardly strewn away his chest plate and buried the equipment in the corner. Color had begun to return to his complexion, but his expression was guarded, strained.

"Asleep, but okay for now," I responded, not bothering to glance back at the machines. If there were a problem, they would alert me. I decided to unravel the tension enough for the distraction to dissipate. "So, Ms. Garcia…"

"Katie?" His voice was terse. "Yeah. Just when we were headed back over the bridge."

I settled my urge to flinch. Years of masking reflexive emotions rushed to the front of my mind. But, I still let the sympathy seep through the cracks when I tilted my head in his direction. "I'm sorry."

"She was a good friend," he said. "Lost a lot of good friends today."

"I know." I wasn't sure what else to say. I had been very… fond of a few of my staff members, but I had always found the notion of complete attachment rather compromising. Jacob was probably the closest thing to a friend I had during Lazarus.

"At least I've still got you to boss me around. Right?" He smiled at me, actually gazed upon me without any distrust or suspicion for the first time since I'd put Wilson down like the rabid varren he was.

And I was more than happy to return it. "Right."

"Good. So…" he lingered on the word, his grin fading with hesitance. "Wilson?"

"Decided to tip the Shadow Broker off on Shepard's progress. He was planning to sell him. I suppose he operated a bit quicker than I anticipated," I answered bitterly, unbuckling the clamps on my own shoulder pads and neatly dispersing them on the deck.

"Son of a bitch. I never would have guessed," he growled. "What the hell did the Shadow Broker want with the commander?"

"No idea. Whatever his reason, it can't be good." I spared a glance backward, just to be sure Shepard had not suddenly thrown an embolus, and found him exactly how I'd left him- asleep. "Hopefully it has nothing to with the competing party Ms. T'Soni mentioned during her visit a couple years ago. The one the Illusive Man was convinced had hired the Shadow Broker."

"You mean," Jacob choked on his words, startled. His amber eyes shot back from the control panel and back to me. He lowered his voice. "You mean the Collectors? They've been pretty quiet since then, Miranda. There's been no word on them searching for Shepard. Or doing anything else for that matter. Except, the usual slave trade or two."

I shrugged and closed my eyes against the headboard. "I don't know. I'm just throwing around ideas. Like you said, it's been two years, and there's been no scavenging of the galaxy for him."

Jacob whistled, "Two years. Poor guy. Gonna be a lot to take in."

I nodded. "He'll definitely need to reacclimatize. He's maintained a healthy percentage of muscle mass- under the circumstance. Nonetheless, his body mass index is lingering on the verge of underweight, so his physicians are going to assure him high calorie diet once we know he can stand thick liquids or solid foods. Especially with the L5 he's sporting. His cognitive awareness seemed adequate, but again, we'll have to run tests. Speech and occupational therapy probably won't be necessary-"

"Miranda," Jacob murmured. "Do you ever just stop and think about how he'll _feel_? The man lost two years of his life. He left behind friends and family."

I spouted off my rebuttal almost instinctually. "No records of significant others. Only surviving family member is a mother. No recorded biological father. Stepfather was buried in late March of 2183."

"Jeez, Lawson," he released an almost sympathetic laugh, and rubbed his temples. Albeit, I thought I caught a trace of condescendence, like he were trying to maintain his patience. "Not everything is a logbook. Shepard is a human being. Which means he _feels _things." I sat up and opened my mouth to protest, but Jacob lifted a hand to stop me. "I get it, okay? You're just giving me the facts. Two years of history, two years of people he loves moving on without him. He's gonna feel like an alien."

"Like he needs a place to fit in the world," I surmised, frustrated. "I understand."

_More than you know, _I added silently.

Jacob smiled again, flipping on the autopilot and leaning back into his own seat. "He's going to have a ton of questions."

* * *

><p><strong>AN: **You guys, I feel terrible. My delay on this _is_ terrible, so I will understand any potential backlash. Heh, sorry. I, um, baked cookies for y'all. Of course, I can't bake, so they essentially taste like bricks. "I just hope it was worth it."

Also, have any of you read **Losing Even That **by ** .D**? I have to say, it's rather fantastic. It's a great, in character, well thought out depiction of everyone and everything that happens during Mass Effect 2. Not to mention, her Shepard is hilarious. So if any of you are interested in some awesome, quality Shep/Miri reading, head her way. It certainly won't disappoint you.

And **V-rcingetorix**'s **Early Discovery **is a pretty fascinating spin on how things could pan out for humanity if they discovered the Mass Relays a bit earlier. So check it out.

Adieu until next time, everybody. Hope you enjoyed it. And comments questions or concerns, leave it in a review or PM.


	15. Lazarus Years Pt10 Urban Legends

**Pt. 10 Urban Legends**

**_1900 Hours, Monday, April 25, 2185 / {TOP SECRET LOCATION} Minuteman Station, {Undisclosed System}, Horsehead Nebula, Earth Systems Alliance Space / 1 year, 28 days Pre Reaper invasion of Earth_**

Inadvertently, Jacob had been correct in his assessment of Shepard's curiosity. Understandably considering the length of time the lieutenant commander had spent unconscious on an operating table, however insatiable his intuitive nature actually was.

Of course evidence of fully functional cognitive processing could not be detected until he was reinstated to complete consciousness. Shepard's body had naturally prolonged his first few sleep cycles after the mech incident on Lazarus in a much-needed effort to recover from shock and detox as his doctors aboard Minuteman Station weaned him off opioids. And even with implants attempting to stabilize his neurotransmitters, withdrawal was certainly not a pretty adverse reaction during his revival.

The first and second times Shepard had reawakened in a quaint, softly lit yellow hospital room, he had still been slightly incoherent.

When his doctors and I tried to offer introductions and orient him to the location and date, he had struggled with immediate recollection of the information. Shepard responded to flashes of pain with grimaces, but hardly ever a sound. No groans or whines of discomfort, but at times he would sit up and mumble a request for fluids or ask a poorly pieced together question. He opened his eyes to the echo of our voices only to stare listlessly back at his helpers, but his movements were fairly normal-if a bit stiff. Then he would succumb to sleep, his teeth chattered, and he shivered with cold sweats until he received another blanket and his episode passed.

But by our second evening aboard Minuteman Station, Shepard felt well enough to be up and about. And therefore, prepared for conversation.

Carrying a stack of data-pads filled with medical reports and galactic news articles detailing a few key events of the last two years, I found him adorned in a white t-shirt and comfortable drawstring pants, loitering in the upper starboard observation room within sight of the infirmary. He towered a handful of inches over Jacob, who in turn was nearly half again as broad. Shepard's face practically pressed against the glass, fogging the pane with each exhalation. The commander leaned as far forwards against the railing as he possibly could to get a better view of a pair of maintenance techs working away at a HUD on the hull.

The fascination in his movements seemed nearly trifling as the pair rallied back and forth in discussion. And if I didn't know any better, I'd have said they had already begun to bond.

"Maybe they'll let you join them, Commander," Jacob jested, folding his arms across his chest.

Shepard withdrew slightly and aimed an index finger at the crew. Though I could not see his smile, I could discern the light-heartedness in his rebuttal. "Out there? Oh. Nah thanks. I'd probably drop something important. Like a grate face, or the one wire that keeps kinetic barriers online. Or I'd probably forget where I set a tool because I didn't tether any to my belt. Have all of my equipment float away right out from under my nose."

"Well." Jacob shrugged slyly. "They have helmets. I'm sure those don't suddenly disappear."

Shepard snorted. "Sure. Laugh at the guy that thought he'd just been spaced."

Jacob suddenly straightened his broad shoulders, erecting his just previously relaxed posture like a practiced marine in the presence any senior officer. "I meant no offense, sir."

"None taken. Seriously. I can handle a joke," Shepard insisted a little too quickly with a dismissive wave of his palms, followed by another direct gesture at the window. "I'm just saying, maintenance would definitely fire me within the week for incompetence. Getting rid of me would be _so_ much cheaper than resupplying."

"I'd have thought a spacer would be more accustomed to keeping better track of his outdoor toys," I interjected, gripping my wrist behind my back.

Both of them turned to face me. Jacob's rotation just a fraction smoother than his companion's, but his eyebrows had not shot nearly as high. For the briefest of moments, Shepard opened and closed his mouth before offering me the broadest, most genuine smile I had ever seen. It curled upwards unevenly on the left side of his face with the practiced ease of intact muscle memory and a great deal of mirth lingering in his eyes that I could now tell for certain were green. They still sustained the diluting, red glow of cybernetics, but with expression and warmth there was hardly anything unsettling about such innocent, ivy irises and flecks of cocoa-colored freckles skirting across his olive cheeks.

And that was all the more reason to be mindful of Commander Ernest James Shepard.

Illuminated scars scaled Shepard's exposed skin and nearly silhouetted his features against the starlit backdrop. His body language was open and humorous as he tilted his shaven head to the side. "That's an unfortunate stereotype," he attested. "We spacer kids were never even supposed be outside. All those rumors about vacuum exposure and breaking a leash were enough to send anyone running home. Even after mag-boots came around. Wandering around a vacuum unsupervised was very taboo stuff."

I narrowed my eyes, grinning just slightly. "And did you listen?"

"I listened. My friends at the time might not have been so accommodating to station rules. Of course I couldn't let just them get into any trouble." Shepard waved nonchalantly, lining up with my general assessment of his tolerance for obedience.

"Without you?" I surmised.

He tried to hide the truth with a perfect mask of innocence. "Getting into trouble—or, you know, getting caught—takes the fun out of stuff. But, if you had the opportunity to get just a little bit closer to the stars, could you pass that up? They're amazing."

"If they led me somewhere important, no," I told him.

Jacob stepped forward. "Commander Shepard, this is-."

"Don't tell me. Let me guess," the commander chattered gleefully. He closed one eye roughly and pointed at me in thought. "Miss… Lawson? Miss Miranda Lawson."

I made a small, intrigued sound. "You've drifted in and out of consciousness for two days. I'm mildly impressed."

"I wouldn't be," he announced honestly. His eyes holistic and penetrating in nature. "One of my nurses said you were in charge here. And Jacob here told me you were the one that, uh…." Shepard glanced sideways at my lieutenant. "How'd you put it earlier?"

"Pieced you back together," Jacob reminded him.

"Right. Pieced me back together," Shepard echoed, still wearing that ridiculous grin. "Makes me sound like puzzle, but thank you for, uh, saving my life. At the moment, I'm not quite sure how I'll repay either of you. I'm sure I'll think of something eventually, but for now I feel like I should get you both gift baskets. Are there any shampoos either of you like? Any vids? Oh, I know." He snapped his fingers. "You're a book person, huh?"

Shepard's smile proved contagious for Jacob, and the marine released a hearty laugh.

He offered me his hand, and with a suspiciously raised eyebrow, I accepted. Fingers having grown readjusted to autonomy without automated stints and cybernetics, his grasp was firm and solid. Not overturned in dominance, nor palm-up in submission, but straightforward. Shepard greeted me as an equal.

And there was the ever so subtle aura that clung to all people like us.

The same aura he clearly detected in me.

His eyebrows, the only two patches of tawny hair currently visible on his head, rose in excitement. "Are you a biotic?"

Jacob stepped forwards, confident as ever. "Miranda Lawson is one of the most talented biotics I've ever had the pleasure to meet…. And fight with."

I shot a pointed glare at him and withdrew my hand. I kept just a trace of terseness in my voice. "Thank you, Jacob."

"That's awesome!" Shepard exclaimed, either unaware of or ignoring the sharp look I'd thrown at Jacob.

I couldn't help but wonder if he would find my abilities so 'awesome' if he knew how I'd obtained them.

"They are impressive," I admitted.

"Finding so many of us in one place is like stumbling across a space unicorn…. Rarer than a regular unicorn…." He coughed into his palm and I was suddenly aware of the fact that Shepard had the spectacular ability of making himself uncomfortable. "I'm one, too."

I raised an eyebrow disbelievingly. "A unicorn?"

Faint redness flooded his complexion, and he rubbed the back of his neck. "A biotic. But, yeah, I guess you would know that, huh? You did apparently put me back together again."

"I know just about everything there is to know about you." I wasn't sure if the smile that nearly tugged at my lips stemmed from a minor sense of amusement, or the supercilious idea the extent of my knowledge.

"Ah, well, I doubt that. There's always more you can find out about someone. I bet I can surprise you."

"I don't like surprises," I informed him.

Jacob grinned again, goading me. "When we have you feeling a bit better, Shepard, we'll have to see you can top her with that new L5x of yours. She sure as hell can kick my ass."

If he'd been blushing before, the commander's cheeks completely flushed, and he immediately averted eye contact with me. Then the rest of Jacob's sentence registered, and he did a double take, suddenly holding the tension and apprehension in his shoulders I had sensed was truly present. His gaze narrowed with a flash of suspicion. "I'm an L3."

An uncertain grimace washed over Mr. Taylor's features, and he took a reflexive step backwards, folding his arms across his chest.

"Not quite," I said, answering Shepard's unspoken question.

"Not quite?" he parroted, no hostility, simply confusion.

"We have quite a bit to discuss regarding your… accident. Nonetheless, welcome back, Shepard. Or do you prefer Ernest? I sure hope you didn't give your parents too much hell for that. It's actually not the worst name I've ever heard."

The air was taut between the three of us for just a moment before he smiled at me again, a hidden trace of gratitude in his expression. "Really? What's the worst name you've ever heard?"

I pulled the answer off the top of my head, my mind's eye witness to a hard, four-eyed, midnight stare and a needle-toothed grin as she spits at my feet and tells me she hopes the dainty human can handle the cold. "Sigrun Krobak," I told him.

"That's actually quite lovely." Shepard paused, catching the incredulous eyebrow I had raised. He shrugged his shoulders, grimacing with the stiff motion, and insisted, "Well, I wouldn't give the name to my firstborn, but for a batarian it's very eloquent."

"If that's your definition of eloquence, Commander, I beg you not to name any potential future child you may have."

"As you wish, Miss Lawson. But, to answer your question, either works." He glanced at the data-pads in my grasp, and tilted his head in a pointed gesture. The red glow of his repaired retinas dilated as he tried to decipher the date. His voice lost a portion of the jovialness, replaced by uncertainty. "Um, now, if you don't mind me asking, what's the date?"

I exchanged a quick look with Jacob and said, "I think the Illusive Man would be more than happy to answer that question. He'd like to speak with you."

"Uh, who?"

* * *

><p>The three of us stepped into the illuminated circle of Minuteman's private conference room. Holo-emitters immediately leapt upwards, absorbing our images in a flurry of bright lights and small hums.<p>

A concerned nurse had tailed us through the hallways with a chair should Shepard have needed one. But leaning heavily against a wall or two, what I had quickly amassed to be an unforthcoming, perceptive, overgrown child had insisted he was merely taking in the sights of the station. He did ask several questions about the base operations, but when he heaved a heavy sigh and prodded at the thin markings scouring his flesh, the discomfort he had been experiencing became potently obvious.

Now, though, Shepard flexed his hand backwards under the rapid beams, and stared with raised brows. He whistled lowly, "Well, I've never seen that before."

"Quantum Entanglement Communicator," said a raspy voice, an air of pride in his voice. "Fairly new technology. Very expensive. Very valuable."

Seated casually in his chair, the Illusive Man's illuminated blue eyes held steady-devoted to a single member of our small party. And in them I witnessed a flash of something subtle and… indiscernible. An expression I had only seen him deliver a few times. One I nearly dismissed for simple intrigue.

Beside me, Shepard's body jerked backwards, and his eyes widened, absorbing every little detail of his new environment: The dwarf star that blended his scars into obscurity, the vastness of the panorama windows, and the sole figure with a double-breasted jacket, just opposite of him.

"Whoa," Shepard breathed before scrutinizing the Illusive Man with wide, pensive eyes. And unlike several others before him, Shepard did not recoil or appear the slightest bit disquieted by such eldritch orbs. In fact, he smiled. "I've read theories on entangled subatomic particles. What makes them so valuable?"

"Regular comm channels are flocked with day-to-day communications. There are significant delays with priority between Council communications, governments, the highest bidder, and are easily monitored by anyone within a light second of buoys. A QEC makes real time communication possible at any distance." The Illusive Man tapped his ashes into the tray on his armrest. "How are you feeling? Would you care to sit down?"

Temptation seeped into his features, but with a second's pause, Shepard shook his head with a raised palm. "That's alright, thanks. I think I've laid down enough these past few days."

"I assume you haven't had much time to be oriented," said the Illusive Man. He gestured in my direction. "Operative Lawson informed me of your little misadventure aboard Lazarus Station. I want you to know, it was never my intention to place your life in jeopardy."

_Wilson's fiasco was your failure, Miranda, _I told myself for the umpteenth time. In spite of my rigorous training to mask involuntary expressions, my eyebrows shot upwards and I bit down hard on my lower lip.

And then Shepard placed another bout of undue praise and trust upon me. He murmured, "She and Jacob saved my life."

_Does he have no idea how much danger he was in? What kind of gamble I played with his health trying to wake him up-at the cost of my staff, no less? _A rumble of frustration tore through my core.

The Illusive Man still did not fully address Jacob or myself, merely glancing over us. But I found no contempt or fault in his stare. "They're two of my most competent operatives, and they performed exactly to the level I expected of them. Namely, keeping you safe and alive at all costs." He gestured towards Jacob. "In case they have not made you aware, Mr. Taylor is a former Alliance marine. He served in the Second Frontier Division in the 232, alongside your former associate in the 212."

"I'm glad you got out of Eden Prime," Shepard told his new companion. "I might have caught fire or something if it weren't for you."

_Again_, I thought, recalling the terrible burns that had marred Shepard's skin the day Liara T'Soni had brought his body aboard my station. And that's all he had been then—a lifeless, broken husk with an exemplary record. There had been no airy, mystified tenor or deflective sense of humor.

"Miranda would have gotten to you," Jacob said. "Of course, you might not have had time to look for your helmet."

The galaxy's savior released a vexed snort.

"And Miss Lawson was in charge of your resurrection," continued the Illusive Man.

From the corner of my eye, I watched Jacob flinch as the phrasing settled in with the commander. His wide, green eyes grew doe-like with wounded innocence, and he forced a hard swallow.

"I'm sorry. Did you say, 'resurrection'?" he gawked, turning to me for confirmation. I was surprised his voice did not break.

Suddenly, I understood Shepard's hesitation. The term must have sounded so mystical and paranormal. Impossible even, save for the sparse tales many species had woven of their deities or heroes arising from the ashes like a phoenix reborn. But it had been done. My staff and I had made it possible.

"When you were brought to us two years ago, after the SR-1 was destroyed, your body was in a state of massive deterioration," I said.

"I don't know all of the medical stuff involved in bringing you back, but you were basically nothing but meat and tubes when I got a look at you," Jacob confirmed softly.

I opened my mouth to continue spouting the scientific jargon involved in Shepard's recovery, but paused when I noticed how surprisingly pale his rich complexion had become. His eyes glossed over, a greenish tinge overwhelmed his cheeks, and for the first time, his smile completely vanished. I watched the tempo of his respirations quickly rise, and for a brief instant, a part of me was concerned he would tip over once more in a loss of consciousness.

"I… I think I'll sit down now," Shepard's voice had lost all traces of jovialness. Hands quivering ever so slightly, he lowered himself to the floor and sat cross-legged, drawing his knees up to his chest in a supportive barrier.

Jacob almost immediately joined him, earning a nod of acknowledgement.

The air in the room held silent as the Illusive Man provided Shepard ample time for memories of the attack to surge forward. Three chairs were ushered inside the QEC by attendants, and Jacob and I gently helped haul the commander to his feet. My touch seemed to only briefly break his trance, and his breath caught as my fingers laced beneath his lean, implant-developed triceps, the expression in his irises practically indiscernible.

Rubbing his scarred face in his hands, Shepard glanced upwards after a long while. "I lost two years of my life."

"Two years and twelve days," said Jacob.

"But… no." Shepard pressed two fingers to each temple, slumping forwards in his seat. "Did everyone make it?" It was a plea, not so much a question. "Did everyone make it off the Normandy in time?"

"Twenty-three of the forty-four crewmembers managed to reach escape pods in time. They were rescued by an Asari Republics vessel, the ARV Lidanya, and shortly passed along to an Alliance hospital vessel, SSV Mercy," I told him.

Unequivocal remorse darted across his expression, and this time he did not try to mask the expression with placid undertones. Shepard wondered, "Who…? Do you know who all was on those escape pods?" He released a hollow laugh, one I was surprised he knew how to give. "Like it makes it any better to say whom survived over who."

"I have a list here." I passed him one of the data pads in my lap, and he immediately sought to scour its contents. "But, I believe the entire ground team survived."

"As did your pilot and onboard physician," my boss added. "They'll be very pleased to know you're awake. I'm sure they'll be inclined to see you before the end of the evening if you feel up to visitors."

That caught Shepard's attention. Relief swelled in his eyes and clogged his throat. "Chakwas and Joker are here?"

_Joker? _I wondered, fleetingly recalling my brief first meeting with Mr. Moreau several months ago aboard Lazarus Station. His green eyes—darker than Shepard's—had been hollow and reminiscent as he stared at the slab of self-repairing skin grafts and monitors the commander had been adorned with. He had wanted to know if Shepard had been in any pain and I assured him, he was not. But that still had not fully convinced the small-framed pilot who seemed as far from comedic at the time as one could possibly be.

The leader of the organization I had devoted my life to took a casual drag on his cigarette and spoke once more. "Dr. Chakwas has been under Cerberus employment since early January of this year, and Mr. Moreau has been with us since late July of 2184."

"That's great!" Enthusiasm had returned to Shepard's inflection, clearly thankful for some of the names he found on the roster. Then he blinked.

For the briefest instant I expected Shepard, even in his partial strength, to surge forward with a biotic wrath powerful enough to rip a tear in the bulkhead. To leap forward in the name of the Alliance and all things it stood for. Too proudly and ignorantly accost Cerberus for all their evil deeds. After all, that's what so many Alliance crew cuts did—at least the ones that didn't join us, or were too shortsighted to understand our purpose.

But Shepard was proving to be something else.

"I admit I'm a tad flabbergasted," he confessed. Then he grinned again. "Isn't that a delightful word? It just rolls right off the tongue."

I was suddenly compelled to double check with Dr. Chakwas to be sure Shepard had not sustained any permanent brain damage, or if rambling was simply a nervous habit he had always possessed.

"Reasonably so," the Illusive Man said. "Your short period of interaction with Cerberus was composed of quite the misunderstanding."

"Yes," Shepard muttered, cheeks reddening as he scratched behind his scarred neck. I made a mental note to prevent him from afflicting any skin breakdown. "I, uh, I'm sorry about… _intruding _like that. I suppose I would have fired at me, too. But, I do recommend putting up signs maybe." He lifted his hands. "Perhaps, 'Warning: Trespassers will be shot on sight. Survivors will be shot again.' It would be very helpful."

The smallest of smiles curled the Illusive Man's lips. Not the same calculating expression I had watched him study others with, no condescendence, only amusement and perhaps… fondness?

_No, _I decided. _That's ridiculous. It couldn't be real. Shepard is an asset._

"We'll take that into consideration," my employer said, much to my chagrin. "And I'd also like to offer my sincerest apologies for Admiral Kahoku's passing. It was never my intention to have my people upset the balance of the Alliance hierarchy. They were never given the order to execute him."

Shepard's eyes narrowed, examining the man that had paid for him to be brought back from the dead with the clear intent of finding any reason to distrust him. Pensive and serene, he once again adapted what seemed to be the ability to see _through_ someone.

"I believe you," he said. And then he completely astonished me—not an easy task. "And thank you. I'd like to know more about Cerberus: What you are, where you came from, what you're about, why you chose to help me. But if you spent the time and money to bring me back, to hire two of the best people I've ever known, and already employed two more people that earned my trust, you can't be all that bad. It seems like I owe you all a great deal. I'm not sure how, but I'll do whatever I can to repay my debt and gratitude to you."

"There might be one way," the Illusive Man murmured before I could make sense of Shepard's promise. My boss leaned forward in his seat, and announced, "Humanity is under attack."


	16. The Fall Pt1

**The Fall**

**Pt.1**

_**1 May 2185, Minuteman Station/Horsehead Nebula**_

No matter how much of a poetic activist the Illusive Man could be, it took very few words to convince Shepard of his value to Cerberus. While Illusive Man assured the commander he was no 'incarcerated guest' and could leave at any time, and that for now he was most interested in Shepard's return to total wellness; none of that information seemed to resonate so deeply with the commander as the shared interest in protecting human colonists.

While I poured over the scraps of retrieved intel from Lazarus Station and sorted between what to dispose of and forward to the Shepard's new medical staff, the commander pressed the parameters of his own physical condition. During most meals Shepard consumed what was merely palatable—too little for an atrophied biotic—and bonded with Jacob over vid game discussions and other worldly topics. However exciting that was, he absolutely buzzed over his reunion with Normandy SR-1's Chief Medical Officer. She apparently found it difficult to dispel him from padding at her heels whenever she went for a personal briefing.

In retrospect I spent very little personal time with Shepard throughout those first few days.

Until the afternoon his biometrics went awry.

"I should have known," I hissed, quickening my pace down the ivory corridor.

For some reason, my life seemed to become quite a bit more chaotic the moment Shepard entered the equation.

Dr. Chakwas matched my pace with a slight smirk, nearly brushing against my shoulder as she passed me a reader on her patient's elevated heart rate through her omni-tool's HUD.

I met Karin Chakwas in passing earlier in the year, but this week marked the beginning of our friendship. She stood elegantly, a few inches taller with myself. Her features we classically stunning: silver hair and eyes, smoothed out by an expression of steadfast compassion. I found her quite likable.

"You can't really blame him, Miranda. He's been couped up for almost a week," she said in a soft-pitched voice.

"He seemed so calm earlier," I sighed.

Admittedly, as a corpse none of my dilemmas with the Blue Suns, pirates, traitors, Lillium, Wilson, and so on had directly been Shepard's fault. Most of those individuals were just interested in abusing his influence. I hoped the walking, talking version could provide me with a bit of respite.

I kept lying to myself.

"An illusion, my dear. He might sometimes look thoughtful on the outside, but never believe for an instant he isn't up to something," Chakwas corrected, hooking a hard right, further away from the physical therapy room Shepard should have been in, performing light stretching and exercise.

I quirked an eyebrow. "So you're saying he keeps things lively?"

She only smiled at me. "Think of it this way: you're at peak physical condition. Your body is the perfect machine, capable of scaling a cliff face, running miles at a time, lifting an entire wall with your very thoughts. Then you wake up two years later and discover your people are missing. No one wants to do anything about it except a few people, and you're compelled to help by nature. Only your body is no longer that fine-tuned instrument the galaxy relied on. In comparison to what you once were, you're rather helpless."

I could understand that . . . if Shepard hadn't developed a nasty case of vertigo and a nosebleed after a moderate round of biotics a couple days before. I'd monitored him like a hawk, and scheduled a near immediate Cat-Scan.

Which he'd quite vocally depreciated.

_Sure, maybe a bit overbearing. He'd been fine after all, but I'm not about to allow two years of hard work to blow up in my face while humanity is in need_, I thought.

"He isn't helpless," I argued. "He just needs to give himself some time to adjust to the new implant. Nothing too outlandish just yet. He isn't even supposed to be awake."

"I think he would be very upset if you tried sedating him."

* * *

><p>A stream of sapphire and a white-hot blast seared the backs of my eyes, and the ground beneath my feet reverberated with the sonic boom of a billion empty atoms erupting across the training center, obliterating shards of a practice dummy.<p>

Shepard stumbled back several feet from the explosion's epicenter, still haloed by his corona. Chest heaving, he swayed, sunk to a knee and set the tips of his fingers on the ground for a long moment. Then, pale with beads of sweat streaming down his temples, he grinned and cheered to the VI, "Alright, let's go again!"

I punched my override codes into the monitoring room's terminal, and demanded the action be delayed. Pointing at the observation window, I steeled my glare towards Jacob. "How many times has he done that?"

Taylor shrugged and folded his arms. "Four, five. Pretty cool, right? I have to admit, I'm a little jealous."

"Jacob, his implant was installed the day before Wilson tried to kill us! Regardless of how much biotech he has floating around, drugging and stimulating his neurosystem, Shepard should still vomit if he lifts a table. He doesn't even have an amplifier installed yet!" My face started to feel a little warm, and I paused to take a deep breath. "Are you encouraging him to become a vegetable?"

Jacob's jaw jilted. "Shepard doesn't even have an amp?"

"No, he doesn't," I answered brusquely.

Chakwas stepped forward before I could rip Jacob's upper body from his lower, and opened the intercom, "Commander," she called in her kind voice. "Would you join us up here please?"

Confusion fled from Shepard's expression as he glanced upwards at the woman in the window, and beamed with a smile as bright as the stars outside. He flashed a thumbs-up, scrubbed the back of his brow with a slightly pained grimace, and pattered to meet us as the glow faded from his shoulders. Shoulders that were still decently defined, but not quite as large or efficient as they should have been.

When the door slid closed with a green padlock, Shepard nodded at his old friend. "Always good to see you, Doctor."

"Hmm," Chakwas hummed, despite the openly fond expression in her soft, twinkling eyes. "It would have been nicer to see you at our appointment."

"That was today?" Shepard said, feigning innocence. His mouth dropped and he scraped his hands across the sprouting fuzz atop his head.

Chakwas frowned, grabbed his wrist, and timed his pulse with practiced ease. "Your appointment with me has been every day at the same time for the past week. Should we look into cognitive therapy to improve your memory?"

Shepard shrugged gingerly. "If it helps."

"I assure you, Commander Shepard," said I, leveling another glare at Jacob. "Should you persist over the next few days, you'll require more than simple cognitive therapy."

Folding his scarred arms across his chest, Shepard pursed his lips. The gesture looked almost painful beneath the luminescent red web. "Specifically?"

On the monitor, I pulled up the rough feed of his recent neurological activity. A patch protecting his implant looping to my omni-tool and the rest of his medical attendees flared red-hot. A concentration of neon light surged down through several large eezo nodes along his somatic nervous system, all originating from a blinding cluster at the base of his brain. Dangerous.

"This was you about ten minutes ago," I dictated.

Chakwas twitched with more concerned. "An average L2 would likely have developed a severe migraine at this level of activity. Maybe even slight hemorrhaging. Shepard, how are you feeling? Any light-headedness?"

"I'm fine, Doctor." Shepard brushed her worry aside with a gentle touch which visibly washed most of the strain from Chakwas' features, no matter how stern she tried to be with him. "Not an L2, so."

"No," I said, baring my teeth. "You're an L5n. A prototype."

The present clip shown in great contrast to the last. His calmer brainwaves eased the tension in my shoulders. However, lingering activity such as stress in the origin remained.

A subtle barrier broke in Shepard's happy-go-lucky facade. A minuscule pulse in the crimson along his jaw, a tug next to his eyes, a flare in his nostrils.

"Yeah, about that. Did I sign some consent waiver, or are experimental surgeries just something that happens in 2185? People switch out their implants nowadays whenever they want?" He stood straighter, and flattened the wrinkles in his shirt. "Tired of only lifting toothpicks with your L1? Well step right up to your local clinic today, and we'll have you updgraded in as little as thirty minutes. Humans only, no downpayment recquired. If you've dealt with red sand in the last three months, please consult your physician first."

"This isn't a joke, Commander," I snapped.

"I know. Which is why I think you should all be taking this a little more seriously," Shepard muttered with almost a completely straight face—except for the subtle twitch in the corner of his mouth. And with a wide swooping gesture, he pressed his luck a bit further. "I mean come on, there are several discontented L1's. I think they should hear about this medical miracle."

I narrowed my eyes in spite of myself, and scoffed, "Be serious."

"Oh, I am very serious," he straight-laced. His chestnut brows shot upwards when he realized I wouldn't budge. "Sorry."

Jacob was clearly amused. "The power those L5's max out on are supposed to be amazing. Get real flashy."

The commander smiled again, a new wryness in the glowing creases despite the heavy bags of fatigue beneath his eyes. "Oh, you seem to have that pull down nicely. But if you really want to I'm sure Cerberus could provide the opportunity."

Jacob grunted, "I'd rather already be brain dead."

_Idiot._

I wanted to hit him again.

Shepard's jaw slacked through his poor sense of humor, and Dr. Chakwas' mouth drew into a grim line.

"I think switching out your L3 would be less of risk than removing an L2, Mr. Taylor. Your implant doesn't naturally cause brain injuries," I retorted, raising a superiorly dismissive eyebrow before turning back to the commander. "Shepard, almost every piece of your extensive operation was experimental. Your spill over Alchera essentially crushed your body, and destroyed your implant. One of the first things my medical team did was remove it—very carefully. That left us with the decision to either give you a new one of the exact make and model, or leave you with a more powerful, safer improvement. We chose the latter."

"Oh, well . . . thanks." The commander's shock evaporated with another crooked twitch of his lip. "I think."

"While we're on the topic of novelty," Chakwas said, stepping up to the monitor. "Commander, do you see how much activity is going on in the back of your mind? The brain is a muscle. It needs to be worked out and adjusted. And if you don't allow yourself the time and patience to adjust you are going to overheat this portion of your brain. And if you do, you and I are going to be seeing a lot more of each other on more professional terms."

For almost a full forty-eight hours, Shepard behaved himself: he ran operable drills with weights and sprints, slept and ate accordingly—if reluctantly—and accepted his prescribed medication without fuss.

Then we received a message. Because fate loves temptation.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: **Well, it's been a very long time. Apologies, but life often interferes with many things. Hopefully the next date for a new chapter isn't far away.

Please note, all previous chapters are under revision. I will be taking them one at a time, and posting their edits back over their current places.

Also, I have another story, Aftermath Insurgencies, if you would like to take a look at it. It's on chapter two, but chapter three should be out within the next few days.

Hope you all are enjoying your day.

Cheers!


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